


AOA Vol 2: The Witch-Consul's Riddle

by Th3Alchemist



Series: An Opus Alchymicum [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials Fusion, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Book: Northern Lights, Book: The Amber Spyglass, Book: The Golden Compass, Book: The Secret Commonwealth, Book: The Subtle Knife, Canon Rewrite, Dust (His Dark Materials), F/M, Gen, His Dark Materials Inspired, Hogwarts First Year, Lyra's World (His Dark Materials), Lyra-Will Reunion, Post-His Dark Materials, Spoilers for Book 2: The Subtle Knife, Spoilers for Book 3: The Amber Spyglass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:08:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 84,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25109011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Th3Alchemist/pseuds/Th3Alchemist
Summary: Harry and Hermione arrive at Hogwarts & unite to uncover the plot focused on the magical school. The Potters now work for the Ministry, an exonerated Sirius joins with Lyra and Mal to chase Dark Forces in the wider world, but the power of the Magisterium runs deeper than they know. Dust, Destiny, and the power of Harmony all clash - in a battle to solve 'The Witch-Consul's Riddle!
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black/Lyra Belacqua
Series: An Opus Alchymicum [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818550
Comments: 28
Kudos: 83





	1. The Letters to Everyone

Harry Potter was a bizarre boy in many ways, as far as you or I would be concerned. For a start, he'd spent the first decade of his life living in an underground city, which at least accounted for his pasty complexion. Nine months in the infrequent sun of the British Isles was yet to make much of a dent in _that_. It wasn't helped by the vivid colours of his jet black hair and piercing emerald green eyes, which drew a stark contrast to his often pallid skin.

But it was the curious, lightening-shaped cut on his forehead - the scarlet scar tissue of which didn't seem to want to fade - that threatened to draw most attention to this unusual young man.

For in the last six months, Harry Potter had become something of a minor celebrity. Now, you wouldn't find him on the couch of breakfast television shows, or handing out the trophy for _Best Fork_ at the _Hand-Held Cutlery Awards_ or anything, but in certain newspapers and magazines it was seen as a waste of precious column inches if his name - or his fascinating story - didn't feature on a regular basis. On a _daily basis_ , if the journalists and editors could swing it.

It was just a matter of sliding him in between stories of rogue trolls terrorising Scottish farmsteads, of the latest form of Muggle-baiting reported by the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts department, or the most recent blockbuster penned by the legendary adventurer, Gilderoy Lockhart.

For that was the _most_ unusual thing about Harry Potter - he was a wizard. His parents were a witch and wizard, his Godfather was a wizard - as well as being a wrongly-accused mass murderer and lieutenant of the Dark Lord Voldemort, though he'd been recently exonerated of both charges - and his legal guardian was a witch. She was also a Professor in the magical subject of _Transfiguration_ , as well as being the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And it was in this capacity that Harry was assisting her today.

For Minerva McGonagall had abandoned her usual habit of setting Harry reading and research tasks and instead put him to use doing a spot of manual labour. She thought this was good practice for the arduous essays she was threatening to set him, when he was under her professional tuition in a few months time. For Harry was only about six weeks away from enrolling at Hogwarts himself, and it was in pursuit of _that_ task that he was employed that afternoon.

Though in truth, he could think of _better_ ways to spend his birthday week.

For Harry was sat in their flat in central London, at a large desk under a bay window, that afforded a nice view down the Thames. It was nice and sunny today, and the river rippled bright and blue, while across on the other bank queues had already formed to jump aboard the London Eye, which was rotating in its never-ending circle. Harry watched it a moment and wished he was among them, slurping on an ice cream or a Slush Puppy and enjoying the sun.

But he'd promised Minerva he'd get this task done before he was allowed out to play. And Harry Potter didn't make a habit of breaking his word.

So he went back to it. In front of him he had a raft of different things. Most of the desk was taken up by two stacks of parchment sheets, one of which was used for writing letters and the other that Harry was turning into envelopes. Minerva had shown him how to fold the parchment just so, then when he slid the two sheets of letter-writing parchment inside he had to secure it with a purple-wax seal, which bore a coat of arms of a lion, an eagle, a badger and a snake all surrounding a letter 'H'.

As well as the parchment sheets and the wax sealer, Harry was orbited by a mound of quills, a knife to sharpen the nibs, two fountains of ink, a list of spellbooks and equipment that he had to include in his letters, as well as a roster of names and addresses that he had to send them to. Right now he was carefully scrawling out the postal details for someone called Lisa Turpin, while Sirius nursed a coffee and told Harry who she was.

"Her father, Richard, sells second-hand cauldrons ... and insurance for when they fail," Sirius explained. "And at vastly inflated prices, too. He knows the cauldrons are out of warranty and have had their bottoms replaced by some cowboy blacksmith or another, but he makes out like they're brand new! So when we head out to buy _your_ school things next week, don't be tempted by a cauldron from Dick Turpin ... he's a bandit and highwayman if ever there was one ..."

Harry nodded sagely, as he blew the ink dry on the supply list he'd just written out.

"You know, I never can tell the difference between a _vial_ and a _phial_ ," he mused.

"One has a ' _ph'_ in it," Sirius funned with a smirk.

"Ho ho," Harry returned in a bored sort of voice. "However they are spelt, what will I use them for at Hogwarts?"

"Potions," Sirius explained. "You'll have to give samples of what you brew to be marked. Just do me a favour, will you?"

"What's that?"

"If you brew anything that hurts, or causes a blemish - like a Boiling Wart Solution or a Pimple Potion - just leave the stopper a bit loose on the container."

"Okay ... but why?"

"Well, _that_ way there's a good chance it will spill all over the teacher when he goes to mark them ... and old Snivellus Snape is owed as much pain as possible."

Harry agreed and scowled at the mere mention of the man. Sirius had told him all about the Hogwarts Potions Master, and his unhealthy obsession with Harry's own mother. He may have worked as a double-agent against Lord Voldemort, but he had started off on the Dark side ... and Sirius insisted that he'd only turned when Voldemort had refused his entreaty to make Lily Potter his _reward_ ... that was more than enough to make Harry despise the man.

"You have to stop calling him _Snivellus_ ," Harry smirked. "Or _I'll_ start to. And I don't want Auntie Min to give me detention before I've even arrived!"

"That would be a new record!" Sirius chortled. "Even me and your old Dad didn't manage _that_ one. It would make him proud!"

Harry frowned. "I don't think detention is something to be aspiring for. My Mum certainly wouldn't approve, even if my Dad did."

"No, that's quite true," Sirius grinned. "And she'd cut my gonads off for encouraging such delinquency in you. So lets ... er ... just keep that between us, yeah? A secret between God-relatives!"

Harry guffawed back at him. Then he turned fully in his chair to ask a serious question. "Speaking of my parents, how did their meeting go at the Ministry?"

Sirius took a deep sip of his coffee. "Very well, from what they were able to tell me. Which wasn't very much, as I'm sure you can imagine."

"Are they going to be employed as those ... _things_ , then?" Harry pressed. "What were they called ... _undesirables?_ "

"Unspeakables," Sirius corrected. "And yes, it seems they are. The Ministry sees the benefit of having spies amongst the Muggles who are spying on _us_ , especially two people like your Mum and Dad, who know so much about the operation already."

"But it means they have to stay where they are, and still live in secret?" Harry grumbled.

"It sort of comes with the territory."

"Well it's very unfair, if you ask me," Harry huffed.

 _"_ James sees it as a fair deal, and so do I," Sirius disagreed. "They'd have been sent to Azkaban otherwise. What they've been doing could be classed as _treason_. And as much as our little cover story has made them look like heroes in the defeat of Voldemort, that's just a fallacy, kiddo. Something for the public and the papers ... and for _you_ , don't forget."

"And I don't suppose today's the day where you tell me what _really_ happened there?"

"Nope," Sirius smirked over his coffee. "It's such a _good_ story, it's worth saving for a special time. The birth of your first son, perhaps. Or when the Chudley Cannons win the Quidditch Super League."

"But you said that will never happen," Harry pointed out.

"Exactly!" Sirius boomed. "The Cannons only ever recruit duffers. They are nicknamed ' _The Roundheads'_ for a reason ... because when they last won a trophy, that was the name given to a group of soldiers at the time!"

Harry just shook his head pityingly, as Sirius shook with laughter at his own joke. Harry folded Lisa Turpin's Hogwarts letter down, heated up the wax and the sealer, then pressed the coat of arms into the envelope join. Then he carefully placed the letter into the pile by the fireplace, that Minerva would take to the post owlery later.

There were only two more letters to write now. Harry joked to his Godfather that maybe he'd want to hand-deliver the first of them personally - addressed to one _Ronald Weasley,_ as it was. But Sirius politely declined, suggesting he'd rather boil his own head in a vat of molten iron than face Molly Weasley - nee Prewett - by choice. The last letter was to 'Blaise Zabini' _,_ a name Harry was glad he only had to write, as he found the very pronouncing of it a challenge.

Harry was about to put away his letter-writing things when there was a sharp _pop_ nearby and Minerva materialised in the flat. By now Harry was used to this abrupt method of appearing and disappearing, but every now and then he still jumped when he wasn't expecting an arrival. This was one of those times.

"You're supposed to warn me before coming home unannounced," Harry fumed crossly. "You could have given me a heart attack!"

"But I didn't, so stop being all pouty and melodramatic," Minerva replied silkily. "And don't put those things away just yet. You may have one more letter to write."

"Who's it to?" asked Sirius. "Enrolment Clearing has to be concluded by May, doesn't it?"

"Ordinarily," Minerva agreed. "But Albus has come into contact with a most extraordinary young girl. A Muggleborn with such natural acuity to magic that Albus is very excited by her. He invited me to watch his _third_ assessment of her ... and he was practically walking on air when he spoke to me afterwards."

"And is she that good?" asked Sirius.

"Better," Minerva smiled. "She showed adroitness to Charms, to Transfiguration and Conjuration, Runes and alchemical theory. All with little or no formal training, beyond personal research, and _all_ whilst borrowing _Albus'_ wand! She's a natural. Sirius ... she conjures the most perfect, flawless portable waterproof fires I have ever seen. And she even makes the flames _bluebell purple_ in colour. I've never seen the like, I tell you."

Harry listened, rapt. Minerva was rarely, if _ever,_ this fevered and impassioned. Harry dearly wished _he'd_ been there to meet this girl, whoever she was.

"So will she be going to Hogwarts?" Harry asked eagerly. He had already pulled a new sheet of parchment towards himself and was clipping the end off a fresh quill. "What's her name?"

"Hermione," Minerva replied. "Hermione Granger."

" _Her-my-own-knee_ ," Harry wrote out carefully. Then he simply frowned down at the parchment. "Auntie Min - that doesn't look right. Are you _sure_ that's a _real_ name?"

Minerva looked down over Harry's shoulder with a stern frown. "No, you've spelt that wrong. You'll need to start again."

Harry scoffed and scrunched up the parchment, which went into the waste paper basket with all the equipment sheets he'd accidentally written _vials_ instead of _phials_ on.

"How do you spell it then?" Harry asked.

"I - T!" Sirius teased. "That's how you spell _'it_ '!"

Harry frowned at him. "Auntie Min, isn't there a spell you can do on him to make him less _annoying?"_

"I spent many years trying, but ultimately failed in my quest," Minerva quipped with a wry smirk at Sirius, who simply barked a laugh in reply. Then Minerva took the quill from Harry and wrote out the name of this curious young witch for him.

Harry cocked his head to read the name. "Hermy-own ... _Hermy-one_ ... _that's_ the real spelling?"

"It's from a Shakespeare play, _The Winter's Tale_ , if I'm not very mistaken," Minerva offered, who was as mistaken only about as often as she was fervoured or could be found belly-laughing.

"If you say so," Harry replied, copying the name onto the parchment letter.

"You'd better wait a moment though, Harry," Minerva advised. "We should wait on confirmation from the Headmaster."

"Confirmation?" Sirius queried. "If this Miss Granger is as good as you say, what's with the delay?"

"Because, as _you_ say, the date for Enrolment Clearing has long passed," Minerva explained. "Dumbledore is putting his case to a hastily convened session of the Board of Governors. Without their approval, the girl doesn't get a place this year."

"But _that's_ just stupid!" Harry argued, oddly keen that this girl be granted a spot at the school. "If she's that good, it should be automatic. It _shouldn't_ be up to a committee."

"I agree, and it probably _wouldn't_ be ... if it wasn't for her blood status," Minerva informed them quietly.

"Ah," Sirius huffed. "She's Muggleborn, didn't you say?"

Harry suddenly understood, and scowled crossly as he did so. The words of Arthur Weasley had sat ugly on his ears for the best part of five months now ... and their meaning hadn't softened in Harry's mind at all.

"So we're back to that stupid _Pureblood_ nonsense again, are we?" Harry fumed. "Cant you do something about that, Sirius? You have your seat on that _Wizengamot_ thing back now. Cant you use that to bring about change?"

"Not on my own, and to suggest it - so soon after being accepted back into society - would be problematic for us both," Sirius replied. "You'll have enough to worry about at Hogwarts without all the blood supremacists giving you a hard time as well."

"I can look after myself," Harry returned stoutly.

"I don't doubt it," Sirius teased. "With your slight frame, you'd be a handful for your average matchstick man. Unfortunately, the people ranged against the idea of _blood equality_ are slightly more formidable."

"Not to mention numerous," Minerva added. "They are far and away the _majority_ in this case."

"Ridiculous!" Harry spat angrily. "Fine. If you don't do something, _I_ will. If it turns out I _am_ as famous as we expect, once I get to Hogwarts, I'll use my position to change the minds of the other kids. They'll listen to me if I'm some stupid kind of _celebrity_."

"And that would be an admirable use of your fame," Minerva smiled. "Your mother would be proud of you."

Harry blushed under the gaze and praise Minerva was lavishing on him. It totally made up his mind to follow through with his promise ... he just hoped this Hermione girl would be accepted into the school. If she _was_ as good as Minerva said, she'd be a shining example of how dumb the Pureblood Agenda was, and maybe people might think differently if they were exposed to the truth.

Not that Harry would ever dream of using her as a poster child for it or anything. It might turn out that she was as shy and retiring as he was, and she might hate the spotlight, just as much as Harry's brief exposure to it had wrought in _him_. But still, it might make them alike ... and maybe she'd want to be friends. Harry thought he'd quite like that, and having someone so talented to help _him_ wouldn't be such a bad thing either.

And he did say he wanted to make friends with a Muggleborn as soon as possible. This girl seemed to be the perfect candidate. He wondered what she was like, if she was friendly or not. She was obviously clever and gifted ... and Harry shyly wondered if she was pretty, too. Not that _that_ mattered ... but for some reason he hoped she was. He had no idea why, he just _did_.

So he sat and patiently waited for the fire to turn green, which it did about an hour later and yielded a single slip of parchment. Harry hurried to Minerva, and read the swirly handwriting over her shoulder without any sort of preamble.

"Great! She got in!" Harry sang. "Can I write the letter now?"

"You certainly can," Minerva smiled at him. "Now you do remember how to spell her name?"

"Auntie Min!" Harry admonished. "Of course I do! But what was her surname, again?"

"Granger. Do you need me to spell _that_ for you, too?"

"Dont even _say_ the words!" Harry shot warningly at Sirius, who had opened his mouth to repeat his earlier joke.

Sirius closed his lips and mimicked locking them with a key. Harry thought there was a fine idea in there somewhere. Perhaps the magical _Society for Irritating Noise Abatement_ could design him a lip-locking curse or something. And maybe if there _was_ no such society, he could look into setting one up. And then this clever Miss Granger could come up with the spell for him.

But that was an idea for later. For _now_ , Harry just wrote out her name, trying his very best to keep his handwriting the tidiest it had been all day. He didn't know _why_ he was doing that either, but it just seemed like the right way to go. The other thing he didn't know, was that in his excitement to write the letter, he'd accidentally forgotten to forge Minerva's signature - as he'd done with all the rest - and signed his own name instead.

Had Harry known about this faux pas, he would have likely chuckled deeply, as he considered quite what Hermione Granger would think when she received her letter signed _'Harry Potter, Deputy Headmistress'_. Little did Harry know that when Hermione eventually _did_ tear open the heavy parchment, the very mention of the name ' _Potter'_ would be enough to send her mindless with a giddy excitement ... one that had little or nothing to do with the promise of studying magic.


	2. Moving Diagonally

The letter was out of the envelope again less than five minutes after Hermione had put it away. And this was the third such rotation that morning. The poor letter had been in and out more times than a Hokey Cokey champion, and shaken all about just as much. Hermione’s excuse was that she needed to memorise the supply list, even though she had the letter right there in her breast pocket for reference should she need it.

Hermione stuck to her flimsy reasoning, but Lyra, Papageno and Mal saw through the ruse as easily as if it were made of glass. For Hermione could _already_ recite the supply list if they asked her, which they often did randomly, as a sort of game to confirm their suspicions. No, Hermione wasn’t reading the letter constantly to simply go over their itinerary. In fact, she only ever had her eye on _one_ part …

The part where _Harry Potter_ had signed his name.

For that was the part Hermione had recited _first_ , not to mention read the most. She had been excited enough to have been accepted into Hogwarts, putting to bed the lingering doubts that Mr Dumbledore had cast on her plan when he told her that she might not be granted a place at the prestigious magical academy. The arrival of the letter was greeted with relief by all concerned, but that relief transformed into mindless euphoria when Hermione read the letter’s _adieu_.

“Miss Lyra!” Hermione had practically _screamed_ when she first read the name. “Look! It’s him! It’s from _him_!”

“Well of course it is,” Lyra had frowned back. “Mr Dumbledore said he’d send the letter -”

“- no, no … not _Dumbledore_!” Hermione had cried imploringly, cutting Lyra off abruptly. “It’s from _him_ … from my _Mr Potter!”_

“Let me take a look at that,” Malcolm had insisted, before reading the name and grinning. “Well, either _that_ or this world has an unusual penchant for names.”

“That’s a fair point,” Lyra mused, taking the letter so that she and Pantalaimon could read it next. “Harry _could_ be a woman … Harriet, maybe.”

“But would the Deputy Headmistress be so informal, on an official piece of correspondence?” Papageno asked sensibly. “I don’t know any teacher that _would_ , especially on a first time of interaction.”

“True,” Mal agreed. “Still, it remains quite curious why Mr Potter would have signed the letter, or even had anything to do with the process at all.”

“I say _serendipitous_ ,” Hermione sang happily. “It’s a sign that we are on the right track. A good omen.”

“I don’t know that I believe in signs _or_ omens,” Mal returned with a grimace.

“Then lighten up and _start_ believing,” Lyra teased. “Our Hermione has just had the first bit of contact with her future love … and it’s happened just _like that_. As if by design. I think that Dust has followed us into this world, you know. _I’m_ happy for you at least, Hermione.”

Hermione beamed back. This was the pattern the last few months had taken. Ever since the Longbottoms had begun educating them about this strange world, other decisions had been made, too. Namely that Lyra and Malcolm would have to assume the role of Hermione’s parents, and play it convincingly. Almost naturally, Mal had become the voice of caution and sense, whereas Lyra was playful, mischievous and tended to side with Hermione to tease Mal, almost like a Mother and Daughter coven.

If Hermione wasn’t careful, there was a chance she might forget that this was just a cover scheme and _not_ the real thing … a trap that Lyra, herself, had fallen into months and months ago.

But Hermione had plenty of other things to keep her occupied, and Mal’s curious observance about why Harry Potter had written her Hogwarts letter was principle among these.

To start with, Hermione simply dwelt on his name - _Harry_. She wasn’t even going to _question_ that this was the boy she was looking for. She just knew it, in every _fibre_ of her being. It was as though she were dialling through the radio stations and that every other name she tried was just static. David Potter? No. Peter Potter? No … that sounded like a super hero in a story about hamsters and guinea pigs. And no other name fit satisfyingly, either.

But when she tried _Harry_ … it was just right. Like finding perfect resonance between radio transmitter and receiver … and getting a clear signal. A signal that told Hermione that Harry Potter was the boy she was going to fall in love with.

Her heart did so many little flips and turns at the thought that Hermione had to take a lie down before she fainted. Harry Potter was his name then … did she ever think she would fall in love with a _Harry?_ The truth was she had _never_ thought about such things, other than to accept the glaring possibility that love was something that was more likely to happen to other people than her.

But here she was, Hermione Granger, holding a letter written to her by her future lover.

She laughed happily as she realised that _he_ didn’t know anything about that, and what he might think about it when she eventually told him, however many years in the future that might be. It would be one of those funny stories to share on a date, or as a nervous outpouring of emotion when trying to explain opposition to him _being_ on a date with _someone else_ \- which was a thought that _already_ made Hermione cross and jealous - or, Hermione thought shyly, to tell on a wedding day … or to their children …

But such thoughts were likely to make her head explode, so she put them into a compartment in the recesses of her mind and swallowed the key.

For she hadn’t even _met_ the boy yet, and Papageno was still full of sage warnings that he might turn out to be a horrible person. Which was valid enough, but abhorrent enough, for Hermione to ignore him for a full hour every time he brought up this cogent point.

Harry Potter _couldn’t_ be any of those things. Hermione was quite decided on that. Mother Nature, the Fates, _Dust_ , whoever was in charge _up there_ … they just couldn’t be so cruel to her, they just couldn’t. In any case, Harry Potter had very nice and neat handwriting, and in Hermione’s view there was a lot to be said for that.

There was also something to be said for the fact that Harry Potter had made the mistake of signing his own name on the Hogwarts letter, rather than that of the _actual_ Deputy Headmistress. It was this point that Hermione obsessed about next, once she had accepted the name of _Harry_ into her heart. This in itself soon pleased her, too, as she realised that their twin first initials made their names pleasantly alliterative. Harry and Hermione … ‘H’ and ‘H’. It was another good sign in her book.

And, though usually she may have been as dubious as Malcolm when it came to signs, _books_ were something she could always rely on … so this was good enough for her.

“But why did he make the mistake?” Hermione found herself asking, usually just to Pap when they were alone, but often to _just herself_ , when Papageno went off for a wander and left her solitary and dæmon-less for a time.

And the answer was usually the same … he hadn’t been thinking or paying attention properly. But why? These were formal letters, and the Deputy Headmistress would surely have emphasised the importance of accuracy in them. But Harry Potter had _made_ this mistake. What did it mean? Was he simply careless? That was entirely possible, but Hermione’s heart wouldn’t stop whispering _another_ reason to her … one that made her grin wildly and set her pulse to silly speeds.

He was distracted … maybe _excited_ … to be writing to _her!_

Hermione didn’t want to believe that, because it would make this whole thing too fairytale-like. And Hermione was at pains to remain sensible and logical about all this. If she let herself become a slave to her whims, to believe that somehow Harry Potter knew about her, and was so eager to meet her that he’d lost his concentration in his excitement, Hermione was liable to have some sort of euphoric fit.

And that wouldn’t do at all. It would be hard enough as it was, to meet him and not blurt out everything she knew in her first sentence. But if she thought that _he_ knew things about _her_ , and was holding them back too, that might just tip her over the edge. And the fate of at least two worlds would be hanging in the balance then. And they were in enough danger as it was.

So Hermione folded the letter away again, tried not to wonder if Harry Potter would be nearby where she was going today, and focused on her breathing. _That_ , at least, was something she could still control.

What Hermione _didn’t_ know was that Harry Potter was _already_ there.

* * *

And he was in trouble. For his Godfather was _very_ cross.

“Eight Sickles a scoop! Are you kidding me?”

“No. Eight Sickles, please.”

“For _owl_ treats?” Sirius protested.

“For _Hedwig_ ,” Harry corrected. “You know how much of a diva she gets if I come back with the cheap stuff.”

“I bet she wouldn’t know the difference,” Sirius huffed.

Harry just blinked at him. “Then you _really_ don’t know my owl!”

Sirius shook his head but handed over the silver coins. Soon Harry was back with a little pouch of gourmet Owl Pellets, which Sirius stowed in his bottomless, weightless, leather satchel, next to the plethora of basic potion ingredients and the set of brass scales that were sat neatly inside the pewter cauldron they had already bought.

“So, where next?” Harry asked brightly.

“Well, what have we gotten so far?” Sirius replied. “Where’s your list?”

“In here!” Harry grinned, tapping his head just above his scar. “I wrote it out so many times I don’t think I’ll _ever_ forget it.”

“Then what do we still need?”

“Well, we have all my Potions things, and we bought my telescope last week, and tailor Swift measured me up for my robes and gloves this morning,” Harry recited, checking the items off on his fingers. “He said I’d grown three inches since he made my _Farringdon Fliers_ cloak, did I tell you? He says to bring it in once the school rush is finished and he’ll take the hem down a bit.”

“More money to hand over then!” Sirius smirked.

“You _chose_ to be one of my guardians,” Harry reminded him gently. “Don’t blame me for costing you your Galleons. But what _else_ would you be spending it on, eh? Firewhiskey and the ladies of Immore Alley, no doubt. Aren’t I a _better_ charity case than them?”

“I’ll answer that once I get the bill from _this_ little spree,” Sirius quipped good-humouredly.

“I don’t know why you’re complaining,” Harry went on lightly. “My Dad will pay you back. He’s good for it.”

“I may not know your owl, but I do know your _father_ ,” Sirius chuckled. “And if you knew him half as well, you might think twice about making a statement like _that_.”

Harry brushed it off. “Either way, I’m your Godson. This comes with the job description!”

“True it does, kiddo!” Sirius laughed. “So, what _is_ left on the shopping list?”

“Well, I may have my robes, but I still need my pointed hat,” Harry replied.

“Mary Milliner over at _The Mad Hatter_ will sort us out on that score,” Sirius informed Harry. “Then we just need your books … oh, and your _wand_.”

Harry’s eyes lit up with that and he felt a tingle of excitement, the same sort he remembered getting each time he wrote the words on the Hogwarts Invitation letters. Getting his own magic wand was one of the things he’d been looking forward to the most.

“Can we get my wand first, please!” Harry begged. “It’s been at the very top of my list.”

“Okay, kiddo,” Sirius replied, ruffling Harry’s hair in the same, annoying way that his father had a habit of doing. “Lets just go and grab some more cash. My pouch is rather _lighter_ than it should be.”

But that plan soon proved to be more difficult than they’d imagined. For as they approached Gringotts, they saw an agitated crowd gathered at the bottom of the flight of marble steps leading to the entrance to the bank. Now Harry and Sirius were used to large crowds, they sort of _had_ to be since it was a phenomena that tended to develop around them whenever they were spotted in public.

This crowd wasn’t for _them_ , however, and the mood soon darkened when they heard what the fuss was all about.

“Robbed! Yes, that’s what I heard!” an excited little wizard nearby was saying.

“Not robbed, so much as _tried_ to be,” his friend corrected. “The vault had not long been emptied just this morning!”

“And it was one of the _deep_ ones … one with a _dragon guard!”_

“Must have been some serious Dark Magic to get through all the enchantments,” a stout witch replied. “You don’t think -”

“ _You-Know-Who!”_ all three whispered together in a hush.

Harry felt his own breath catch in his lungs at the mention of the much-feared Dark wizard.

“Oh, bless my heart! Don’t say that!” the first wizard said, faintly.

“Merlin save us if _that_ ’s who’s behind this!” the second added.

“But who else _knows_ such things!” cried the witch.

“You-Know-Who is _gone_!” Sirius growled fiercely, approaching the little trio. “Trust me … I _know!_ I was _there_! Spreading gossip and discord is no way for respectable people to behave. You should be ashamed of yourselves!”

The three of them bowed their heads, suitably chastised. But Sirius placed a protective arm around Harry in spite of this as he guided him around the edge of the throng.

“C- could it be him? Be You-Know-Who?” Harry asked quietly, ashamed of his own cowardly stutter.

Sirius stopped and rounded on him, fixing a firm stare into Harry’s eyes.

“Dont call him _that!”_ Sirius hissed sternly. “Using such a nonsense affectation only makes people _more_ afraid of him. Call him Voldemort or, if you really want to anger him and his memory, use his hated Muggle name - Tom Riddle. He was just a man, Harry. A very bad one, yes, but a man nonetheless. Not a myth, or an irresistible force, just a disgruntled wizard with daddy-issues and an inferiority complex, who just _happened_ to be highly skilled in the magical arts. But that didn’t save him from getting his twisted arse handed to him by me and Dumbledore.

“He’s _gone_ , Harry. You don’t need to be afraid of him. Or _anyone_. If anything threatens you, absolutely _anything_ , you have me, and your Mum and Dad, and Minerva, even Dumbledore, to look after you. And I’d burn the _world_ down to keep you safe. Don’t you ever forget that.”

Harry threw his arms around Sirius’ middle and squeezed tight. He couldn’t help it, and Sirius didn’t mind in the slightest.

“Look, I’m going to see if I can find out what’s _really_ going on at Gringotts,” Sirius went on, gently disengaging Harry’s limpet-like grip. Here, take my money pouch. There should be enough in there for your wand and look, there’s no queue! Everyone’s come to watch this drama. Idiots! Charlatans! Go on, if you hurry you can beat the crowds.”

“Okay,” Harry agreed. “I’ll get my wand then head to Flourish and Blotts. I can at least browse in there till you arrive with more money!”

“That’s my boy!” Sirius barked. “Meet you in the bookshop there. Oh, and Harry … don’t go wandering off, okay. Just in case.”

Harry nodded his agreement, then hurried to the wand-makers, just as he was bowing _another_ rather interesting customer from the shop …

* * *

“Next! Yes you, missy! Are you next? Then step forward, girl!”

Hermione pouted and wanted to be cheeky and say she wasn’t _next_ , but was _Hermione_. But Mr Ollivander was so harried and impatient that she thought better of it. So she dutifully made her way to the wand-maker and consoled herself that Lyra was frowning enough for the _both_ of them.

Mr Ollivander seemed to sense Lyra bristling at him, and eased his mood down. “Another for Hogwarts, eh? Seems only yesterday that I was wand-fitting the last batch. Where does the time go? And why do so many leave it to the last minute.”

“You’ll have to forgive us, sir,” Malcolm tried placatingly. “We are Muggles. Our Hermione, here, didn’t show the signs of witchcraft until very late. We only received her letter last week, so I’m afraid we are running a little behind on her preparations for school.”

“Yes, I can see how that might happen,” Mr Ollivander replied in understanding. “Never the matter, better late than never, eh? So, which is your wand arm?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand that,” Hermione returned. “I’ve never had my own wand, you see.”

“Quite,” Mr Ollivander replied somewhat coolly. “Hold out both your arms, then, so I can take some measurements … yes, just like that … fine. Let me see … ahh … I see … very well … hmm, curious … _very_ curious.”

“Excuse me, but I cant help noticing you _muttering_ ,” Hermione frowned. “Could you please explain _what’s_ curious?”

Mr Ollivander fixed Hermione with a pale stare.

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, you know, and every person I’ve ever sold one _to_ ,” Mr Ollivander began in his soft voice. “And only _once_ before have I ever come across someone like _you.”_

“Someone like me?” Hermione queried. She looked to Lyra for support. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that everyone, _everyone_ , favours one hand or the other for the use of their wand,” Mr Ollivander explained. “It is a universal truth, one of the very few that govern the subtle laws of wand use. But you … you seem equally as adept with your right _or_ your left. And the _last_ person I came across who could do this had _another_ unique trait … they could use _multiple_ wands without restraint, as if any they picked up had been their own.”

“Is that unusual?” asked Malcolm, coming over and standing at Hermione’s shoulder, reassuring her - as he always did - with his strong presence.

“Very,” Mr Ollivander replied. “You see, a witch or wizard develops a unique connection with their wand over time. It starts off when the cores of wand and wizard recognise their kindred in the other, and form the basis of a bond. This strengthens over years of use and trust in each other. And whilst one may have _some_ success with the wand of another, the results are usually unpredictable, unreliable and ultimately can lead to rejection of the wizard by the wand, which will refuse to perform to the will of the spell caster.”

Hermione blinked at the revelation. She made a mental note to learn far more about wand-lore, as it seemed such a complex and fascinating topic.

“But with _you_ , Miss …?”

“Granger. Hermione Granger,” Hermione replied shyly.

“Miss Granger,” Mr Ollivander parroted. “I shall have to remember that one. For with _you …_ why, I feel you will be able to use _any_ wand without issue. Of course, you will only get the very best results with your own, but I imagine you will have similar success with the wand of any blood relative and - in the future - your spouse and children. You are what we refer to as _ambi-wandrous_. How extraordinary! Come, let us find you your perfect partner wand!”

“But, how will I know which one is right for me?” Hermione asked. “There are literally _hundreds_ here!”

“Thousands, actually,” Mr Ollivander replied proudly. “But there will be the exact match somewhere among the dust.”

He seemed alight with energy now, as though the arrival of a special client and her unique needs had made his day. His change of mood helped relax Hermione, too, who was sparked herself by the inadvertent mention of _Dust_. Then another thought occurred to her.

“Mr Ollivander? If I am - what was it? - _ambi-wondrous_ -”

“Ambi- _wandrous_ , Miss,” Mr Ollivander corrected.

“Yes, well … _that_ ,” Hermione frowned. “How will I know which hand to use? Or … does it mean I will need _two_ wands … one for each hand?”

Mr Ollivander’s eyes lit up as if on fire. “Oh I do hope so, Miss! I truly hope it does! Come … let us begin.”

* * *

Some forty-five minutes later and Mr Ollivander was bowing Hermione Granger from his shop, the proud owner of not one but _two_ new wands. It had been a most illuminating experience for him, not to mention _profitable_ , too. For Miss Granger had left with her main wand - one made of rare white willow, with a unicorn tail hair core - and a second made of protective yew wood with phoenix feather core. This second wand was extremely powerful, and had simply refused to let Miss Granger leave without it.

It was also one of Ollivander’s oldest and finest crafted, so it fetched a pretty price, to boot.

But no sooner had he stopped marvelling at _that_ piece of good fortune than he was facing another. For Harry Potter was hurrying down the street towards him, bulging money pouch in hand …

“Ah, Mr Potter. I wondered when I’d be seeing _you_.”

“Well, today’s your lucky day,” Harry replied coolly. He was already fed up with the fawning people insisted in foistering upon him whenever he was out in public. He hoped to make this visit to buy his first wand as brief as possible.

“Indeed it is,” Mr Ollivander agreed, though he didn’t elaborate on his meaning when Harry sent him a quizzical look in reply. “Come in, Mr Potter, and take a seat.

Harry did, but immediately saw a problem. For _all_ the seats were full of discarded wands. There were scores of them, all different shapes and lengths and types of wood. Harry was stunned that there even _was_ such variety.

“Last customer tricky, were they?” Harry quirked, gesturing at the piles of wands.

“Oh, on the contrary,” Mr Ollivander beamed, his wide-eyes misty and ethereal. “In fact, she was the _easiest_ I’ve had in years. A true _ambi-wandral_ … able to use both hands to spell cast,” he explained when Harry looked puzzled. “Quite a remarkable young witch. She successfully created sparks with _every_ wand you see here. We only ceased testing when the poor thing’s arm grew weary.”

“Is that good then? Being able to use lots of wands?” Harry asked, curious.

“It certainly helps,” Mr Ollivander replied. “And it is a rare gift. Though I don’t need to tell _you_ that … your mother was the _last_ ambi-wandral I sold to, after all.”

Harry blinked in surprise. “Was she? I … I didn’t know that.”

“Really? I would have thought she’d told you. How strange. But then, you weren’t raised by her, were you?”

“Er … no,” Harry lied, quickly remembering their cover story. “My Aunt raised me. Her sister, you know, and she’s a Muggle.”

“I know what an _aunt_ is,” Mr Ollivander returned curtly. “Now, lets see if we can pair you up with a wand, shall we?”

Harry shifted nervously on the balls of his feet. “Is … is there a chance of that? That I _wont_ find a match, I mean.”

“Only if you were somehow a Squib,” Mr Ollivander replied. “But a boy who was able to deflect a Killing Curse should be reasonably expected to perform magic, don’t you think?”

“Um, yes, I suppose so,” Harry lied again. Part of their story was that Voldemort had cast a Killing Curse at him, but he’d deflected it into a Runic Magic Reliquary, allowing them to drain Voldemort of his magical power. Harry often forgot the details of their ruse. “So, what should I do?”

“Wand arm?” Ollivander asked brusquely.

“Right,” Harry replied, holding it out.

Ollivander began taking the same sorts of measurements he’d done on Hermione not long ago.

“Hmm, very well.,” Ollivander pondered. “Wrist-to-elbow is ten-and-a-half inches, so we’ll try for something _eleven_ , just to give us some wiggle room.” Suddenly, the wands behind Ollivander began to shift and move, with the correct length ones primed as if to fly off the shelves. “And we want something nice and flexible. Try this - pine and dragon heartstring. Just give it a wave.”

Harry, feeling a little foolish, took the wand and waved it about. But nothing happened. So Ollivander took it from him and gave him a second - beechwood and Thestral claw - but snatched it back almost at once. The third, a springy ebony and unicorn hair wand, was so slick that it flew out of Harry’s hand when he lost grip on it and smashed the little lamp on Mr Ollivander’s desk.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled guiltily, retrieving the wand and starting to pick up the fragments of glass from the counter top.

“Leave that, my boy, don’t want you cutting yourself,” Mr Ollivander replied. He seemed to have no mind for his broken lamp, and was fevered in his enjoyment of trying to find Harry’s perfect match. They tried three more without success, so for wand number seven Mr Ollivander took a gamble.

“I wonder,” he mused, as much to himself as Harry. Then he fixed him with a deep, inquisitive stare “Breaks most of the rules … and wouldn’t make sense … but why not try? Hmm.”

The wandsmith went into the back of the shop and brought back with him a dusty old box that looked as if it had been there for years. He paused before opening it, drumming his fingers lightly on the lid. Then his curiosity won out and he handed the wand inside the box to Harry.

“Try _this_ one,” Ollivander whispered eerily. “Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches. Nice and supple. See if this is the wand for you.”

Harry knew in an _instant_ that it was. As soon as the wood touched his hand a cosy warmth ran up his fingers, tickling his skin and filling him up with a sense of completeness. It was like finding a long lost pet whose affection had never diminished and was overwhelmed to be reunited with its owner. That was the closest approximation Harry could give.

He waved the wand, red and gold sparks shot out of the end like confetti, and Mr Ollivander clapped his approval.

“Bravo! Well done, Mr Potter,” Ollivander simpered happily. “Well, well … isn’t that _interesting?_ ”

There was something about his reverent tone that caught Harry’s attention. He hadn’t noticed the way his heart was suddenly pounding with a nervous beat.

“I’m sorry, but … what’s so interesting about this sale? Don’t you sell wands every day?”

“I do, I do,” Mr Ollivander agreed, as he began wrapping Harry’s wand in a new box. “But this is a curious one. You see _your_ new wand has a phoenix feather core. Now, phoenixes are very rare, and so wands with phoenix cores are equally rare. In fact, the phoenix - whose tail feather resides in your wand - gave another feather. Only _one_ other. This sale is curious, indeed, because though you are destined for _this_ wand … I literally just sold its _brother_ … to that girl who was in here before you.”

“The ambi-wandral?” Harry asked, astonished. “Wow. That _is_ curious. What does it mean?”

“It means, Mr Potter, that we should expect great things … from you both,” Mr Ollivander replied in his ethereal voice. “For to share in brother wands is to share a deep connection, and for the claiming of the wands to happen so close together … I cannot believe it is mere coincidence. There is _providence_ at work here, Mr Potter. Providence, I tell you.”

Harry wasn’t sure he was all that comfortable around Mr Ollivander. He paid Seven Galleons for his wand and exited the shop. He walked quickly away, disturbed by Ollivander’s portents about his future. Harry was hoping for a quiet life, one devoid of drama and danger. Part of him knew such a hope was a folly, but as he ducked into Flourish and Blotts he thought maybe the life of a bookshop owner might be the one for him.

But even _this_ profession was harassed today. The shop was crowded and Harry was buffeted from all sides. Fabian Flourish, the owner, had become a good contact for Harry, recommending books whenever Harry stopped by, which was often. He was quite flustered right now, however, and looked fit to drop. But he smiled warmly at Harry as he spotted him.

“Ah, HJP,” Fabian beamed, using a nickname he’d formed for Harry. “What can I do for you today?”

“Just browsing,” Harry grinned back. “You look busy.”

“Frantic,” Fabian replied. “I’ll be glad of a nice cup of tea later. Maybe a brandy!”

“Anything I can do?” Harry enquired.

“Actually, yes,” Fabian beamed in his relief. “This young lady was just looking for the Hogwarts section. Do you mind showing her?”

Fabian gestured to a girl stood just to his right. She had a pretty heart-shaped face and kindly chestnut eyes. She also had a _lot_ of hair, which always gave Harry goosepimples, as he was constantly on the lookout for the girl he’d seen in the Mirror of Erised all those months ago. She smiled shyly back at him.

“Of course,” Harry smiled goofily back. “Follow me.”

So the girl did. Harry barged his way through the crowds to make way for her, scowling at anyone who challenged him, and soon they were standing in front of all the required texts. Harry snarled at a blonde-haired boy of about his own age, who sauntered away, then Harry turned back to the girl.

“The third shelf has all the first-year texts,” Harry began. “Sorry … that is what you’re looking for, I’m guessing?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Okay, cool. I’m starting next term, as well,” Harry went on. “The books are good. I’ve read most of them by now, but I’ve also _forgotten_ most of it, too! Can I make a suggestion?”

“I’d love a suggestion!” the girl smiled.

“Get this book too, just for extra-reading,” Harry stretched up to the top shelf - which was beyond the girl’s reach - and took down a shiny copy of _Hogwarts: A History_. “It’s my favourite, you know. You’ll like it, trust me.”

“Okay, I will. Thank you. I’ll be sure to have it memorised by September the First!”

Harry blushed under the smile the girl was giving him. She really was pretty, but she had the sort of prettiness she probably wouldn’t see in herself, and others might miss it too. Harry felt an odd sense of _privilege_ that he _had_ spotted it, though it was causing him to flush hotly and he was having a hard time keeping eye-contact with … what _was_ her name? Harry realised he hadn’t asked, and chided himself for his bad manners.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Harry mumbled.

“That’s because I didn’t say it,” the girl smiled, equally as shy as he. “But it’s Hermione. Hermione Granger.”

“Nice to meet you, Hermione Granger. I’m -”

“HARRY POTTER!”

Harry span on the spot, as a little ginger-haired girl squealed his name. Harry didn’t wait for the inevitable surge of interest in him, which came moments later. He darted away from Hermione and out of the shop before she could recover herself and react to this chance meeting with her future lover. She could only watch through the window as Harry raced into the presence of a suave, dark-haired man, who whisked them away in swirl of colour.

Just then, Lyra came up behind Hermione.

“I don’t believe it! I don’t _bloody_ believe it!” she cried.

“I know, I know!” Hermione agreed, then moaned deeply, “I’m so _stupid!_ What must he _think_ of me!!”

“Who? That boy?” asked Lyra, confused. “Why? What did he say?”

“Oh, nothing of consequence,” Hermione snapped. “He was kind, and courteous and Lyra - he was _Harry Potter!”_

“That was _him_!” Lyra breathed. “Oh my.”

Hermione frowned at her Mistress. “What does that mean?” she huffed. “What are _you_ so animated about if not Harry?”

“I didn’t know that was him, I was more interested in that man he disappeared with,” Lyra explained.

“Why? Who was he?”

“That, my dear Hermione, was Sirius Black!”


	3. A Spot of Spotting

Sirius had been laughing for fully ten minutes. Harry had been scowling for precisely the same amount of time. Minerva, on the other hand, was trying to remain neutral, though the pull at the corners of her mouth and the sparkle in her eyes were a total giveaway.

Then there was Lily and James, who had brought them the source of this mirth and were trying to be supportive of their son, who was the subject of it.

“ _Potter Spotters_! Really?” Harry moaned with a grimace. “How can that even be a thing?”

“Just wait till you’re a bit older, and it becomes ‘ _How to Marry Harry’_ ,” James teased. “ _Then_ you’ll need to watch out. There is nothing quite so scary as a pack of vapid girls baying for a bit of flesh!”

“Pfft! Like you’d know anything about it!” Lily taunted with a grin and a wink. Sirius just howled out another peel of laughter as James screwed up his face at his wife.

Harry frowned harder still, and looked daggers at his Godfather. Once _that_ was done, he turned his eyes back to the glossy magazine on the coffee table, that was still open to the centre page spread that was causing so much consternation. It was from _Mizz Magic_ , the premier bi-weekly source of gossip, celebrity and fashion for the _young witch about town_. Whatever that meant.

And now, it would seem, they had taken an interest in all things _Harry_.

He was about to start school, so his sheltered life was about to come crashing down around his skinny shoulders. It was as if the press had been _dying_ for this moment, and now they were just chomping at the bit to get a piece of him. The furore surrounding the Gringotts break-in had stirred both fears of Voldemort and interest in his vanquishers. And Harry was going to be thrust front and centre.

“But its not _fair_ ,” Harry complained bitterly. “How can they be asking for pictures of me … from the _public?_ It’s wrong, it’s immoral … it’s _not funny!”_

Harry directed his ire at James and Sirius, who were finding his disconsolate moaning indescribably amusing. This, in turn, Harry found highly irritating. He turned to his mother for support.

“How can they do this to me?” Harry begged. “Cant you make it stop?”

“They aren’t technically doing anything wrong,” Lily soothed, though she sounded angry, too. “As long as the photos aren’t _indecent_ they are perfectly at liberty to print them.”

“So I just have to put up with it?” Harry huffed. “Is that what you’re saying? Great. That means everyone at Hogwarts could potentially be a part of the paparazzi!”

“Especially little ginger-haired _super fans_ … from what I hear!” James teased.

Harry glowered at Sirius. “You _told_ him!”

“He _had_ to!” James guffawed. “We’re worried for your safety. You forget … we’ve been through this before!”

Sirius stopped laughing at a stroke. He turned to James in deathly seriousness. “No … you don’t _think …_

This time it was Lily who laughed. “Oh, yes, Sirius! Only we don’t just _think_ … we _know_.”

“But … but … it’s _impossible,_ ” Sirius argued. “The Weasley Curse … they cant _have_ daughters, can they?”

Harry frowned at his father. “That’s not true, is it? They weren’t cursed to not have daughters, surely?”

“That was always just a rumour,” James explained. “But there is the curious fact that Ginevra Weasley was the first female born into the family in a long, _long_ time.”

“That’s why the rest have to have so many boys,” Lily went on. “If they want to keep the family line alive, they have to have enough heirs to find wives to bring _in_ , because they cant produce any girls.”

“Only now … _they have,_ ” James completed.

“And she seems quite keen on _you_ ,” Minerva took over. “I was there, Harry, that day a fortnight ago at Flourish’s. It was Ginevra who screamed out your name like a banshee. But I was _following_ her. I overheard her mother mention that you had been seen on your own on Diagon Alley … _without_ _your_ _chaperone_.”

Six, accusing adult eyes turned on Sirius, who seemed to shrink slightly under their combined condemnation. Had he been in his dog form, Harry was sure he would have put his snout between his paws and whimpered pathetically. Harry was cheered by the image and grinned at the others.

“ _Anyway_ , I was concerned,” Minerva continued. “Little Ginevra was so animated about the possibility of seeing you that she was like a ball of potential energy. One of my Muggleborn students once mentioned a game they have, on an electronic entertainment centre, - something called _Sonic The Hedgehog -_ and the little character often swirls up in a ball of focused and crazed energy.

“Well, little Ginevra was just how I imagined _that_ to be. And she wasn’t alone. There was a little gaggle of _Ethel Hallow’s Magical Academy_ girls nearby, and they were eavesdropping and overheard … and they were just as frenzied. One of them dropped that magazine in her hurry to try and get a look at you. I picked it up and thought your parents should know.”

Harry looked down at the moving photo of himself in the magazine, taken on the day that he and Sirius had gone to Morganna Park to watch the birth of the first dragon born in captivity in over a century. _The Daily Prophet_ had been full of dark portents, concerning the rise of black market dragon egg sellers, and Harry had made a joke that he hoped Hagrid never ran into one of them, or it would be like all his birthday wishes coming true at the same time.

The photo had been snapped with Harry in standard catalogue-model pose mid-laugh. Which still made Sirius laugh _now_ whenever he looked at it. Though _both_ Harry’s quickly frowned at him when they caught him at it.

“So what do I do?” Harry asked, somewhat frantically. “You sound like I’m in _danger_ from this.”

“Well, if Ginevra is anything like _Molly_ then she’ll certainly be persistent,” Sirius warned darkly. “You should be on your guard.”

“What can I expect?” Harry pressed.

“Weekly fan mail, poetry, chocolates laced with love potions,” James chuckled. He quirked a grin at Sirius. “What am I missing, mate?”

“Saucy photos and used underwear … though maybe that wont happen for a few years,” Sirius replied grimly.

“Eww, _disgusting_!” Harry retched. “What was the _worst_ thing Molly sent you?”

Sirius looked at James. “Can I tell him?”

James looked at Lily. “Can he tell him?”

Lily looked at Harry. “Do you _really_ want to know? It’s pretty grim.”

Harry took a steadying breath. “I think I should. I need to be prepared for this. Go on.”

“Well, one time, Molly sent me some of her _hair_ ,” Sirius began slowly. “She put it in a little bright pink envelope covered in love hearts and tied with a pretty little bow.”

“Oh. That doesn’t sound so bad,” Harry returned breezily. “People send locks of hair all the time.”

“No, no, kiddo, you’re not understanding me,” Sirius ploughed on anxiously. “She sent me a very _specific_ type of hair … one that didn’t come from her _head_.”

“Eww … _armpit_ hair! That’s foul.”

“No. It wasn’t armpit hair.”

“Facial hair?”

“No.”

“Did she have hairy feet?”

“Actually … I don’t know. Maybe she did. But this hair wasn’t from her feet, either.”

“Then what other type is there?” Harry asked, perplexed.

Lily moved close and bent down next to her innocently confused son. “It’s like this, sweetheart. When a person starts to get a bit older, usually into their teens, they start to grow hair in a very _private_ place. You know … _down there_.”

Lily pointed south to emphasise her point. Harry’s eyes went very wide.

“What … you grow hair … on your _bits_?”

James guffawed like a schoolboy and both Lily and Minerva looked pityingly at him. Then Lily turned back to her child.

“Yes, Harry, a little on _those bits_ , especially for girls,” she explained. “But mostly just above that part, a little below the waist.”

“Okay,” Harry mumbled, wondering what _his_ bits would look like all lost in a mass of hair. If the stuff on his head was anything to go by, he’d have a job even _finding_ it to use the loo. “But … why did Molly Prewett send you _that_ hair, Sirius?”

“Because it's very private and personal … and a bit rude,” Sirius replied. “The sort of rude that older boys and girls often find fun.”

“And did _you_ find it fun?”

“No, I almost projectile vomited,” Sirius replied lowly. James was heaving in his laughter next to him. “I have chronic Ginger-vitis, remember. Urgh … I don’t think I can drink any more of this tea. I need to gargle with Listerine just _thinking_ about all this!”

“Okay, so be careful opening any unsolicited envelopes,” Harry recited dutifully. “Any other advice?”

“Make friends fast,” James suggested. “Try and form a sort of bubble around yourself. Your friends can help with that.”

“I agree,” Minerva nodded. “Little Ginevra wont be starting Hogwarts until _next_ year, but we’d be foolishly naive to think there wont be others.”

“And not just girls,” Lily added seriously. “This generation will be _teeming_ with the children of former Death Eaters. Some will be antagonistic, some may even see Harry as a new Dark Lord to rally around. Choose your friends wisely, Harry.”

“I’m going to make friends with Muggleborns,” Harry announced. “The Purebloods might leave me alone if they think I’m some sort of blood traitor.”

“Try not to tar everyone with the same brush, Harry,” Lily implored. “For every racial purist there are perfectly liberal Purebloods, too.”

“Indeed there are, kiddo,” Sirius reinforced. “I’m Pureblood, your old Dad, too. I know he’s not the _best_ role model in other areas, but he treats non-Purebloods fairly well. He sort of had to … if he wanted a date with your Mum!”

“Shut up, _Our Iron_ ,” James teased.

“Our _what_?” Harry queried.

“Our Iron,” James explained. “Sirius’ middle name is Orion -”

“- which I _hate_ , by the way, as it was my _father’s_ name -” Sirius clarified.

“So we called him ‘ _our old iron’_ or just _‘our iron’_ to wind him up.”

“Which it very much _does_ ,” Sirius frowned.

“Okay, I’ll keep an open mind,” Harry promised. “Who were _you_ friendly with?”

“My best friend was Alice Longbottom,” Lily replied. “We grew inseparable after becoming friends during our maternity classes. We both got pregnant at the same time, you see, so her little boy should be starting school the same time as you. If he’s anything like Alice you’d do well to get to know him.”

“Longbottom,” Harry nodded. “That’s an easy name to remember.”

“Just watch out for the Malfoys,” James warned. “And keep the Weasleys at arms length. We don’t want any of the brothers kidnapping you for your _fangirl!_ ”

“Shut up, Dad!” Harry cried, as James and Sirius fell about in chuckles again.

* * *

Some time later, Harry woke in a fit. He’d forgotten to let Hedwig out and she was barking at him from her cage. He hurried to his owl and opened the latch, offering the last of the gourmet owl treats to pacify her. She took the treats, nipped Harry’s thumb sharply just to remind him of his role in _this_ hierarchy, then hooted affectionately as she headed out to hunt.

Harry was about to flop back onto the bed, perhaps after finishing the latest comic book tale from _Agent_ _Cajun_ \- they were just about to decode a Mayan codex, after all - when he noticed light seeping in from under his bedroom door. The clock said it was gone two in the morning. Who could have been stupid enough to leave the light on?

Then Harry heard muffled voices. _Animated_ voices, at that.

He dropped down onto his belly to listen at the crack under the door. It was his Godfather’s voice that he heard … and he sounded troubled.

“What was the guy’s name again? I didn’t quite catch it.”

“Polstead. Malcolm Polstead,” James replied. His voice was grave and serious.

“I don’t know him,” Sirius replied. “And he told you … _what,_ exactly? What did he say about Riddle?”

Harry gasped loudly, which drew movement from the living room.

“Harry is _asleep,_ isn’t he?” Lily queried sternly. “I don’t want him hearing this.”

“I checked twice,” Minerva confirmed. “That boy could sleep through a thunderstorm.”

Harry held his hand to his mouth to muffle his breathing. A few pregnant moments passed, then his father spoke again.

“Polstead told us that he’d _seen_ Riddle,” James disclosed. “Not only that, but he’d _spoken with him_. Sirius … you didn’t kill Lord Voldemort … Tom Riddle s _urvived._ ”

Harry could hear the deep intake of breath from his position on the floor.

“I think I always knew that he had,” Sirius confessed. “Without seeing a body, I could never be sure. Not that the death of a body would defeat _him_.”

“No, but a magic-less one has certainly held him at bay for a decade,” Lily reminded him.

“But now he’s found a way _back_ , you think?” Sirius pressed. “And a way to _reawaken_ his magic?”

“That’s what our information suggests,” James confirmed.

“And it concerns _The Stone_?” Sirius went on.

“Not just the Stone,” Lily corrected. “Don’t forget we _knew_ what was going to happen when he attacked us … I was _bottle feeding_ Harry the Elixir just in case … that was how he survived.”

“And that’s how Riddle thinks he’s going to get back,” Sirius surmised. “Well … it was lucky Hagrid emptied Vault 713 when he did.”

“Yes … I just hope Dumbledore has a sound plan this time,” James replied darkly. “I don’t like being kept out of the loop.”

“Leave Dumbledore to us,” Minerva jumped in. “Just tell us what this Polstead character said.”

“He told us he’d met with Riddle … in _another world,_ ” Lily explained. “To be honest, for our first assignment as Unspeakables this was pretty serious stuff. If we hadn’t known about _Sirius’_ world-hopping, we wouldn’t have believed a word of it.”

Harry felt his head spin with the deluge of information. It was a good job he was lying down, otherwise he might have fallen down. But James was speaking again.

“This Polstead was sent to us by a witch contact we have in the North,” James was saying. “A Serafina Pekkala. Very strange character, one of those Northern shaman-types. Anyway, Polstead says Riddle is planning to return, using the help of something called the Magisterium.”

“The _Magisterium_!” Sirius hissed. “Merlin forbid!”

“You know about them?” asked Lily.

“Yes, and it’s all bad,” Sirius confirmed. “They are religious zealots of the worst kind. The Witch Trials and Burnings? That would have been their doing.”

Lily gasped angrily. “But … how can they be _here,_ too?”

“These religions cross worlds,” Sirius clarified. “The _gods_ at the top - if you can call them that - have the ability to span time, space and realities. Are they omnipotent beings? Aliens? Dead humans who have ascended to power in the afterlife? Who knows … all that matters is that they _exist_ … and that they pose a genuine threat to freedom. Especially to _our_ kind. Magic, or the occult, is the worst form of heresy to these people. We _cannot_ take this lightly.”

“And now it seems they are in league with Lord Voldemort,” James sniped.

“Not all will be,” Sirius corrected. “I _know_ Serafina Pekkala. She’s a fair and kind witch … very beautiful, too …”

Sirius’ words tailed off pointedly.

“You _didn’t_ … did you!” James suddenly cried, incredulously.

“Of course I did!” Sirius replied, smugly. “And half her clan too! They are still _women_ , James. And _very_ alluring ones, at that!”

“You are a pig,” Lily spat fiercely. “How have you not been hunted down and killed by one of your conquests? From _any_ world?”

Sirius laughed. “There is only _one_ such woman I fear in such a capacity. And if _she_ finds a way here we might as well recruit her. Trust me, even Lord Voldemort would quake in his boots in the face of Lyra Belacqua and her rampant rage!”

“Maybe we’ll send you into the other world to get her,” James suggested, and he was only half-joking. “We might need all the help we can get.”

“One thing I need to get is some sleep,” Sirius suddenly yawned. “That boy of yours tires me out. You didn’t warn me about _that.”_

“Well _you_ were the one who introduced him to Quidditch before Hogwarts,” James pointed out fairly. “You have no-one to blame but yourself, Paddy. Now, Minerva, speaking of Quidditch … about this _no first-years_ rule …”

“Oh, that’s all in hand,” Minerva returned solemnly. “I’ve seen the boy fly … he’s better than Charlie Weasley. Lets just hope he has sharp hands … that Snitch isn’t going to catch itself next year, you know.”


	4. A Dæmon's Decision

August the Thirtieth was a balmy, sultry night across the British Isles. Lyra had flung open the large windows of their Oxford flat, in an attempt to entice a non-existent breeze into the stifling rooms. She had even brought the fan from her bedroom and plugged it in, only for it to blow warm air around the living area. In the end, she’d resorted to pulling off her halter-top and lounging on the window sill, half in and out of the frame, and cooling herself off by allowing melting ice cubes to drip down her neck and into the crook of her bra.

“If Malcolm sees you like this, he’ll have a heart attack,” Pantalaimon warned, as he stretched out near the fan.

“I don’t care,” Lyra huffed. “If I don’t get cool, I’m sure _I’ll_ die! It’s so _hot_ , Pan! I don’t think I can stand it!”

“It’s nothing like as bad as the Levant,” Pantalaimon reminded her. “You’re being melodramatic as always.”

“Is Hermione asleep?” Lyra demanded. “All that packing was very stressful for her.”

“Yes, for the third time,” Pan replied blandly. “That was good stuff … what was it called again?”

“Horlicks,” Lyra reminded him. “As soon as Mal gets home, I’m brewing a cup and heading right to bed. Maybe this heat wouldn’t hurt so much if I was unconscious!”

“You’re such a diva!” Pan chuckled. “Sometimes I forget how much, then you overreact like this and it all comes flooding back!”

“Shut up, Pan!” Lyra laughed.

“I cant … we need to talk, now that we’re alone.”

Lyra sighed heavily. “Yes, I know we do.”

“What are the chances?” Pan began. “Not only that we’d _find_ him … but that he’d be here with _Harry Potter_?”

“Billions to one, I reckon,” Lyra huffed. “Dust works in funny ways, Pan. Annoying ones, too, sometimes.”

“Annoying? How?”

“Well, if Sirius is Harry Potter’s guardian I wont be able to torture and kill him,” Lyra replied resentfully. “I was so looking forward to cutting off a certain appendage and wearing it as a necklace!”

“Lyra! Don’t be disgusting!” Pan fake admonished with a deep laugh. “Then again … you could _still_ do that. He doesn’t _need_ it, after all!”

“True. Though I much preferred it when I had his balls in my handbag _metaphorically,_ ” Lyra mused. “Maybe having bits of him under my nose might be a _little_ unpleasant.”

“Yes, quite unhygienic,” Pan quipped lightly. “Though, lets be honest, you never had Sirius Black under _that_ kind of control.”

“No, I doubt _any_ woman ever has,” Lyra agreed bitterly. “How many others do you think he’s had?”

“How high do _numbers_ go?” Pan laughed. “But don’t act all scorned and mistreated. You loved it at the time … and you never loved _him_. You’re just cross that he kept more lovers from _you_ than you did from _him!”_

“Sometimes I wish you didn’t know me so well,” Lyra smirked. “But that’s what I’ll do when I see him again. I’ll list them all, in alpha-numeric order … then tell him he was the worst of the lot!”

“But he _wasn’t_ …”

“No, he was right up near the top,” Lyra grumbled. “But _he_ doesn’t need to know that. Yes, that will do very nicely for me. I’ll do it in public for maximum effect.”

“No you wont,” Pan warned. “It will humiliate Hermione. Think of her, instead of your savage self.”

“Yes, I will. You’re right,” Lyra agreed. “But I _will_ tell him … and I’ll add that he ‘ _didn’t touch the sides’_ either … or does that reflect worse on _me?_ ”

“I am not having this conversation with you,” Pan returned flatly. “When you meet Sirius, I’m going to be far, far away.”

“You are? Where?”

“Anywhere!” Pan chuckled. “Just so long as I don't have to listen to your gutter verbiage!”

Lyra laughed. “That's fair. I’ll give you advance warning, okay?”

“Deal,” Pan replied. “You know you'll probably just end up sleeping with him again, anyway. So … what are we going to do? After _all that_ , I mean.”

“We are going to have work with him, aren’t we?” Lyra huffed. “There’s no way around it. Mal has met with Harry’s parents, and they told him Sirius is looking after their boy.”

“Asta told me that Mal had no choice but to tell Harry’s mother about Hermione,” Pan confessed to her lowly. “She _hunted_ him down, threatened him at wand-point.”

“Cant say I blame her,” Lyra mused. “If some random man turned up and suddenly knew all about Hermione ... I’d have him under my gun before he could even say ‘ _don’t shoot_ ’.

“I know you would … and my teeth would be in his throat, too.”

Lyra raised her eyebrows at him. “You’ve certainly changed your tune.”

“Well, lets just say Hermione has grown on me,” Pan replied plainly. “Papageno too. I hate to think how _feral_ I’d become if anything threatened him … threatened _them_. I … I was thinking about something. But I’ll understand if you refuse.”

“What is it?”

“Do you remember that witch we met in Senegal … the one whose dæmon could _still_ change?” Pan began slowly. “Do you remember her?”

“Yes, I remember,” Lyra replied cautiously. “She said her dæmon had learned to change again … but that it hurt _her_ like _separation_ every time he did it. Why … what are you thinking?”

“I don’t like the idea of Hermione and Pap going out of our sight for so long,” Pan explained. “And I was thinking about what Alice said, about how _owls_ are used in this world for communication.”

“You were thinking of _changing_ again … and going _with_ Hermione?” Lyra hushed.

“Not necessarily with her, but I could certainly travel to Hogwarts,” Pan clarified. “If I pretend to be the family owl, or something, I could go regularly and check on her, make sure she’s doing okay.”

“Well, that would certainly put _my_ mind at rest,” Lyra considered.

“But could _you_ go through the pain again?”

Lyra stared at him like he was a fly in her tea. “For _Hermione?_ … I’d take pain between my teeth and bite it till it bled for _me!_ The suffering would be nothing for the benefits. And it wouldn’t hurt _you_ , would it? It would just be me.”

Pan swooned at her. “When did you become so noble and considerate? No … you don’t have to answer that. I know the answer already. I never thought I’d say this, but …”

“What?”

“Motherhood _suits_ you, Lyra.”

Lyra beamed at him, the blush covering her entire body making her hotter than ever. She was still held, all full up with love like this, when the flat door clicked open and Mal entered. He stood in freeze-frame as he clocked eyes on Lyra’s slender, semi-naked form, the moonlight falling over her pale skin in a way that decimated his mind a moment.

He had never been more rueful that he’d never found a way to properly seduce her.

“D-do you want to cover up?” Mal asked quietly as he entered the flat and laid his rifle on the table.

“No, it’s boiling in here,” Lyra complained. “You’ve seen plenty of women in _less_ clothing than this. Stop being all complicated.”

“We both know you aren’t _plenty of women_ ,” Mal retorted bluntly. “Can you cover up … please?”

“Why? Not sure you can control yourself, are you?” Lyra purred vampishly.

“Lyra …”

“Oh, fine,” she huffed. “There’s a thin shirt in the dryer. Throw it to me, will you?”

Malcolm complied and soon Lyra was decent again. Well, as decent as _Lyra Belacqua_ ever could be.

“So, what did you learn?” Lyra demanded briskly.

“Nothing good,” Mal replied. He went to the fridge, opened a beer and drunk deeply. Then he offered the rest to Lyra, who took it as Malcolm cracked open another bottle. “It’s as we suspected … the Magisterium has their claws deep into this world, too.”

“How deep?” asked Lyra, wiping the beer foam from her lips like a heathen.

“The Church isn’t what it was in _that_ form here, but it has branched out into politics, media, the very social fabric,” Malcolm explained. “It has as much control here as I’ve seen anywhere. Only here … it’s harder to see. It’s almost like their influence is invisible. But it’s no less potent … and equally as nefarious.”

“Then Thomas Riddle has his support network already in place,” Lyra snarled.

“So it would appear,” Mal agreed. “Things are far more advanced on this side, too.”

“Explain,” Lyra ordered.

“Lily Potter and I had a very frank discussion,” Mal began, but Lyra cut across abruptly.

“Yes, I _heard_ ,” she hissed. “You didn’t say you’d told her about Hermione! I’m not angry - Pan explained the circumstances - but why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was afraid you’d be angry,” Mal explained, so fairly that Lyra’s protest died in her throat.

“Okay, I’ll allow that,” Lyra smirked. “But you can tell me now, first.”

“Lily wanted to know how I knew about Harry,” Mal started. “It turns out that he’s not _always_ been as well known as he is now.”

“But … that crowd?” Lyra argued. “And the newspaper articles … the magazine exposés … he has _chapters_ about him in those books Hermione hasn’t stopped reading!”

“All new developments,” Mal explained. “It turns out Harry was raised in an _underground city_ … and only surfaced about a year ago. He knew as little about this magical world as we do.”

“Really? That makes things interesting,” Lyra pondered.

“It gets better,” Mal continued. “It transpires that the _reason_ the Potters went underground was to - get this - _escape Lord Voldemort_!”

“Wait … isn’t that what Thomas Riddle is called in this world?”

“The same,” Malcolm grinned. “And not only _that_ , but they were partly responsible for weakening him enough to allow Sirius Black to banish him in the first place.”

Lyra frowned. “We need to find out much more about this, Mal. Where do we start?”

“Those books of Hermione’s,” Mal replied. “Once she goes off to Hogwarts I’ll give them a read, see what the propaganda says about him. I doubt very much it will be the _truth_ , but it will give us a start. But, as much as I hate to say it, I think Hermione may be right … about this being _serendipity._ ”

“How so?”

“Well, what are the odds, Lyra?” Mal asked. “What are the chances that a couple of magical people _here_ help defeat a Dark Lord, and the wizard who tries to do the last part becomes your … er … lover.”

Malcolm said this last part through _very_ gritted teeth.

“And that he came to _our_ world in the first place,” Lyra agreed. “And that it would lead me to know about _this_ world -”

“- so that you could help _Hermione_ now -”

“- and that the boy she is going to love happens to be the _son_ of the very couple who started it!” Lyra cried. “Yes … I see what you mean. It certainly has a ring of _divine design_ to it, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know about _divine_ ,” Malcolm argued. “But _Dust_ may certainly have an unusual interest in these two.”

“Oh if only I had Mary Malone’s Amber Spyglass,” Lyra rued. “She’d know right away. Oh, _Mal!_ Maybe _that’s_ what I could do! Find Mary! She might still be here, in Oxford!”

“She might not be,” Mal pointed out. “She might not even still be alive.”

“But if she _is_ , I might be able to find her!” Lyra cried. “She was ever so clever ... and she's bound to know _loads_ more by now. She might even know where …”

Lyra let her voice tail off. The air in the room congealed until it was like tar. It was a good minute or two before Malcolm spoke again, and his voice was _very_ strained when he did.

“You … you do what you think will be most useful,” Mal spoke lowly. “I’ll take Hermione to Kings Cross tomorrow. You begin your search.”

“Mal … I … I didn’t …”

“We both know you did,” Mal volleyed back sharply. “I’m going to bed. You’re welcome to finish my beer.”

Then he went away, leaving Lyra feeling truly awful in the sultry night.

* * *

In the darkness of her bedroom, Hermione couldn’t sleep at all.

It wasn’t just the oppressive heat, which was choking in the little box room. No, it was more the weight of expectation she had about the coming day. All things considered, Hermione wondered at her going to bed at all. After all, she had so much going on in her head that she rated her chances of sleep at zero to impossible.

So she just shifted her position every five minutes or so, turned her pillow to the cooler side every ten, and tried to work out if she was more nervous about starting at a new school than she was about introducing herself _properly_ to Harry Potter, when she finally met him again.

For this was something she was determined to do right away, to make a better impression than she had on him the first time, for she was quite certain she’d made a fool of herself. Even though her ever-rational brain couldn’t quite work out _how_. But she was convinced of it. Either she hadn’t said the right thing, or hadn’t smiled enough, or hadn’t been as friendly as she could be. It was all sorts of wrong in her fraught mind and Hermione was just _desperate_ to make amends.

She had been dwelling on little else for the past month. On every _nuance_ of the meeting. Every look, every inflection of his voice, every word he chose … and she’d been pleased with all of it. But she thought that all _her_ responses had been silly and forgettable. He had been kind and friendly and everything she’d hoped he would be … but she was convinced _she’d_ come across as the village idiot who didn’t know when the next rocket to the moon was due at the bus stop.

Hermione couldn’t help but be a _little_ disappointed that Harry Potter hadn’t recognised her name from the Hogwarts letter. It had put a serious dent in her girlish hopes for a fairytale romance. But then Pap had come to her rescue, reminding her that Harry hadn’t had a _chance_ to voice his recognition, as that ginger girl had screamed his name and sent him running for the hills.

Hermione was _seriously_ cross at that, and considered hunting the girl down and poking her in the eye with one of her magic wands.

But the thought of _that_ only stirred Hermione’s irrational fear about _forgetting_ something. So she had to get up and check her trunk again, just to make sure both wands were safely packed and ready to go.

Which they were.

So Hermione went back to bed … and back to feeling anxious over Harry Potter. She had decided to impress him by being true to her word and memorising _Hogwarts: A History_ as she’d promised. Harry had said it was _his_ favourite book, and Hermione quickly found that it became _her_ favourite, too. Though whether this was by chance or design was best left to Dust to decide, Hermione reasoned.

She wondered which fact Harry would be most impressed with. The one about the enchanted ceiling was a good one … and he would _surely_ be curious about that when he saw it. Or should she start earlier, by telling him that the carriages - which shuttled the Second Years and up from the train station to the school - were pulled by creatures that could only be seen if a person had witnessed death? No, that was a little bit morbid. Not the kind of impression to make right away.

Perhaps she could tell him about the Four Houses, but she might accidentally say that she really hoped they were Sorted into the same House, which he might think was being weird. She could mention the Great Lake, but would he think she was asking him to visit it with her? In fact, that could be said of _any_ landmark at the school. And she didn’t want to come across as all obsessive by demanding his time and attention.

For she didn’t think he seemed to like that very much. He had run away, at some speed, from the crowd at Flourish and Blotts. He didn’t milk the limelight at all. Hermione actually really liked that about him. It said he was down to earth and not arrogant at all, which pleased her.

And that raised a curious possibility … maybe he would be _happier_ with limited company, more comfortable with a smaller circle of friends. Hermione found she could _definitely_ get on board with that idea. And if she could show him that he had all the _close_ friend he’d ever need in _just her_ … well, that might be quite something. Quite a lovely something, actually. For _her_ too, funnily enough - as she shyly admitted _-_ for he had been very pleasant to be around, even when he _wasn’t_ being all kind and friendly.

For Harry Potter was actually quite pleasing to look at, in a way Hermione hadn’t found in another person before. A way she didn’t really understand at all just yet. It was like sailing on a new ocean, one never before charted, and Hermione had discovered a most breathtaking view.

It was a little bit like that.

And it _did_ take her breath away strangely, and made her pulse speed in her neck, and her palms go all clammy. That was odd, too. She just hoped none of this would happen tomorrow. For what would Harry Potter think of her, if she turned up like a tongue-tied, sweaty oik and tried to say hello?

Hermione couldn’t settle to _that_ thought _,_ so she got up to take another shower, just to be ready for her _very_ big day in the morning.


	5. The Hogwarts Express

Harry and Sirius arrived at Kings Cross and looked around. It was packed, obviously, and Harry stuck close to his Godfather for support, as he had never been a fan of thronging crowds. The Ten-Thirty Eurostar from Paris had just arrived on the St Pancras side of the station, and Harry amused himself awhile trying to pick out the French accents from the Belgian ones.

“Come on, lets get this over with,” Sirius began bracingly. “Maybe we can get onto the platform before the snappers spot you!”

Harry huffed at that and busied himself checking Hedwig’s cage, while Sirius lifted his trunk from the boot of his shiny black sports car and dumped it onto a trolley he had conjured from somewhere. Harry had been too busy fussing with _fuss_ y Hedwig to notice.

“No, I’m not letting you out,” Harry warned her. “And no, you cant _fly_ to Hogwarts and show the train the way, in case they forget. Don’t pout at me like that. Just because you’re the _prettiest_ owl doesn’t mean you get special treatment.”

“Smooth, kiddo,” Sirius grinned as they made off towards the station. “Look at the place! Packed full of Muggles, of course. Sometimes I wonder how they all _fit_ in London, there’s so many of them. But you can always spot the magicals.”

“You can? How?”

“By how they dress,” Sirius explained. “You see, most magicals rarely interact with the Muggle world unless they have to. Don’t get all militant … it’s not _always_ for the bad reasons you’re thinking of. But sometimes it is. Anyway, because they aren’t part of it, they have no idea how the standard Muggle dresses.

“It’s actually legitimately based. You see, magical clothing is just that … _magical_. Special fabrics and materials, spells and runes woven into garments. They help enhance and channel magic, and many magicals feel _naked_ in ordinary Muggle garb.”

“Like the Invisibility Cloak?” asked Harry, feeling secure mentioning it for the first time that day. For every _other_ time he’d mentioned it he’d become so paranoid that he’d leave it behind that he was prone to re-packing his entire trunk, just to make sure it was there. But he had done _that_ just before they’d left, so he was happy enough. Maybe he’d double-check on the train, though, just in case.

“Not just like the Cloak,” Sirius informed him. “There are types of tunics that deflect low-level spells - like professional Duellers wear - and gloves with special sticking charms to help Quidditch players. You can even get hats that record information and are an aid to memory, but don’t tell your Auntie Minerva I told you that.”

“Why not?” Harry grinned. “What did you do this time?”

“I wore one for my Fourth Year Transfiguration exam,” Sirius smirked back. “Had all the answers inside just waiting for me. But I got cocky, for not only did I answer all the questions perfectly, I also added in extra credit information, too. That raised Minerva’s eyebrows when she marked it.”

“Why? What did you score?”

“Ooh, something like _a hundred and twelve percent!”_ Sirius laughed. "Which was quite an improvement on my projected grade."

“Which was?” Harry chuckled.

“Lower seventies, I think,” Sirius pondered. “Which I thought was a bit harsh in itself, considering I’d perfected my Animagus transformation that year. That should have been worth something … not that I could _tell_ her, obviously. Being unregistered as I was.”

“You really were a nightmare, weren’t you?” Harry giggled.

“What do you mean _were_!” Sirius funned. “I still am, thank you very much. And proud of it. I rate it as my best feature … after my gorgeous _visage,_ of course!”

“Of course!” Harry laughed. “Now, you _were_ telling me how to spot Magicals by how they dress.”

“Ah yes, well, take old MacMillan MacMillan, over there,” Sirius began. He pointed out a rather rotund man in a loud Hawaiian shirt - complete with feather boa - and fishing waders. He was also wearing a Fedora. “Never met a Muggle outside of his own Hogwarts time, I’d guess, judging by _that_ get-up!”

“He does look funny,” Harry giggled. "Wait ... did you say his name was _MacMillan MacMillan_?"

"Yep."

"Really?"

"Would I lie?"

"His parents must be very cruel, then," Harry mused.

"I don't doubt it," Sirius agreed. "They didn't even teach him how to dress like a Muggle, either." 

“It’s like he went into a second-hand shop and just picked things at random.”

“He probably did,” Sirius informed him. “You’d be surprised how many Magicals shop like that in Muggle places. I once went on a date with a witch who decided to have a fun, _Muggle-Themed_ night in. Now bear in mind that _she_ had never ventured into the Muggle world, either.”

“What happened?”

“Well, we did a crossword from a knitting magazine, built a _sandcastle_ in her living room, then she made a candle-lit dinner,” Sirius remembered. “It was uncooked pasta dinosaurs - which were meant for kids - in blancmange with pork scratchings. It was like trying to eat Lego in gloopy yoghurt! Most random date of my life!”

“You should write a book!” Harry quipped. “You’d give that Lockhart bloke a run for top spot in the Bestseller list!

“I wouldn’t believe everything you read, if I were you,” Sirius replied cryptically. “Gilderoy Lockhart is a good writer … if he as good a _wizard_ … many would say _‘no’._ Right, we’re here.”

“We are?” Harry queried. He was staring at a solid brick arch separating platforms Nine and Ten. “Where’s the doorway? You said there was a doorway.”

“There is … right there,” Sirius grinned.

Harry frowned. “What … _in_ the arch?”

“Precisely!” Sirius boomed.

“I cant see anything.”

“No, and that’s the point,” Sirius informed him. “It has to be invisible to the Muggle eye, but still open to Magicals.”

“Excuse me,” said a gruff voice from behind them. “But I couldn’t help overhear you talking about _Muggles.”_

Sirius turned and eyed the thickset man suspiciously. Harry did too, and almost lost his breath. For there, protruding out from under the hem of the man’s unseasonal longcoat, was the unmistakable barrel of a rifle. Harry blinked at it as the man began explaining himself.

“Forgive me, I don’t mean to cause alarm,” he was saying. “It’s just that my daughter … we found out she was a … a _witch_ over the Summer. And she starts school today … at a _magical_ school. Only, we cant find out how to reach the platform to catch the train that will take her there. Could you help us, please?”

“Of course!” Sirius cried jovially, visibly relaxing. “My Godson, here, is a first-year starter, too. I was just saying to him, there is a magical barrier hidden _inside_ this archway.”

“That’s not very clear, is it?” the man rebuffed.

“No,” Harry agreed with a nod. “It’s very _stupid,_ actually. There must be a better way.”

“I’ll be sure to suggest it at my next Wizengamot meeting,” Sirius quipped. Then he turned back to the man. “All you do is walk towards the barrier and pass through. Best do it at a brisk pace if you’re a little unsure.”

“And it opens for Magicals only?”

“And their relatives or legal guardians today,” Sirius informed him. “Would you like us to wait, to help you reach the platform?”

“Oh, er … no!” the man cried suddenly. “Your instructions are quite clear. Thank you for your help.”

Then he hurried away at a canter.

“Strange,” Sirius mused suspiciously, watching the man go with a curious frown. Then he turned back to Harry. “Right … shall I go first?”

“No, I’ll go,” Harry decided. “Knowing _you_ you’ll put a spell on the barrier to not let me through … and I’ll crash into it with my cart and make a right fool of myself!”

“I would never do that!” Sirius objected loftily. “On your first year! Next time though, it’s a _great_ idea!”

“Shut up!” Harry grinned, before racing through and onto the crowded magical platform.

* * *

Malcolm returned to Hermione, who was waiting patiently near the car with her trunk on a trolley. Well, as patiently as she _could be_ knowing that she could be meeting with Harry Potter again very soon, which made her possibly as _nervous_ as she could be. She really wished Lyra had come to see her off - and Papageno was equally as melancholy without Pantalaimon for reassurance - but they had to leave early on a special assignment, though Malcolm wouldn’t say what it was.

He didn’t seem to know what to say _now_ , either, which did nothing to settle Hermione’s nerves.

“What is it?” she asked briskly. “Did you find out how to reach the platform?”

“Yes, but we have a problem,” Malcolm replied.

“Why does _that_ not surprise me?” Hermione huffed. “What is it this time?”

“The barrier,” Malcolm explained plainly. “It will let _you_ through, but only your parents or guardians can accompany you. I have a feeling our little _arrangement_ wont count for _this_.”

Hermione frowned crossly. “No, I doubt it will.” She took a heavy breath. “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to go on my own. I’ll still have Pap, though. I’ll be alright.”

“I’m sorry,” Mal muttered. “I should have found out more.”

“It isn’t your fault,” Hermione soothed. “Even if you _had_ known more, you couldn’t have done anything about it. I _have_ to get onto that platform, that’s just how this works. And I was going to have to be on my own eventually today. We’ll just have to say goodbye at the barrier instead of on the platform.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“It’s okay, I’ll be fine. Come on, show me where the barrier is.”

Malcolm led on. They walked quietly through the station and came across a large family of red-headed people queueing up near the barrier. The mother, a rather round woman, spotted them and ambled over.

“Hogwarts, dear? Do you need help reaching the platform?”

“No, we know how,” Malcolm replied coolly. Hermione saw his hand tighten around the rifle in his jacket. “Thank you.”

“Oh … very well,” the woman returned, blushing at the stern rebuke. “Enjoy the term, then.”

And one by one the red-heads disappeared through the barrier. Malcolm turned to Hermione as the last one - a lanky kid with dirt on his nose - vanished from view.

“Right, ten to eleven,” Malcolm announced. “You’d … better get on through.”

“Yes, I should,” Hermione replied, biting her lip nervously. “You will wait until I’m gone … just in case something goes wrong.”

“I’ll wait here until quarter past eleven, just to be sure,” Malcolm reassured her firmly. "If anything doesn't go to plan, you come on right back through to me, okay?"

“Thank you,” Hermione mumbled … then she suddenly flung herself at Malcolm and hugged him tight. “I’m going to miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too,” Malcolm smiled down fondly, smoothing her thick hair in what he hoped was a comforting way. He was getting better at all this _fathering_ stuff, and he found he would be quite desolate once Hermione wasn’t around for him to continue practising on. “Go on then. Your mystery boy is waiting for you!”

Hermione disengaged herself, blushing shyly. “I don’t know about _waiting_ for me … but I will try to find him.”

“Don’t try,” Mal advised with a warm smile. “Just let it happen. Serendipity, remember?”

Hermione beamed at Malcolm and tried to hold back some silly tears that had suddenly formed in the corner of her eyes. She hid them in Papageno’s cat-fur, as she picked him up and placed him on top of her trunk, for he had resolutely refused to be put into a cage for the journey. Then Hermione turned to Malcolm, stood on tip-toe and placed a shy kiss to his cheek.

“I’ll see you at Christmas,” she whispered, blushing crazily. “And I’ll write to you at the end of my first week, to tell you how it’s going. Take care … and take care of Lyra. I feel she’s rather hopeless on her own!”

Mal laughed at that. “At last! Something we both agree on! Now, go. You don’t want to be late.”

Hermione gave a smile, and a little wave, then she and Pap pushed their way through onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

* * *

“First years! First years this way, please! That includes _you_ , Mr Potter!”

“Mr Potter!” Harry quirked. “Auntie Min … is that really necessary?”

“Now we are on school time, it is,” Minerva replied sternly. “I cant be seen to be showing you favouritism or familiarity. You are a student now, and our relationship must change to accommodate the new situation.”

“You don’t really mean that.”

“No, I don’t,” Minerva whispered with a grin. “But we have to pretend when other people are watching!”

Harry grinned back. “Got you.”

“Go on then, kiddo, get out of my hair for a few months!” Sirius joked. “And don’t go blowing anything up in your first week … unless it’s Sniv -”

“Sirius,” Minerva warned sternly.

Harry just laughed behind him. “Alright. I’ll see you at Christmas, unless you’ve rented out my old room. Oh, I forgot to ask, what _did_ get stolen from that vault at Gringotts? I remembered the other day, that was the one you put that grubby little package in last year. What was it?”

“Never you mind,” Sirius returned, oddly as stern as Minerva ever was. “You put that from your mind and concentrate on your studies. If I hear that you cant do Wingardium Leviosa in your first lesson I’m going to give you detention myself!”

Harry chortled at that, gave Sirius one last hug, then joined the throng of first years under the watchful eye of Minerva McGonagall. He tried to avoid making eye-contact with anyone, which was difficult as _every_ pair of eyes was looking at him. Harry shrunk under their combined attention.

“Aunt - _Professor McGonagall_ ,” Harry begged, nodding at the gawking crowd. “Can’t we speed this up a bit?”

“We have to wait until all the new starters arrive, so they can board the train first,” Minerva explained. “We don’t want them getting scared and overwrought by being around all the scary, bigger children. Justin Finch-Fletchley has already wet himself. I doubt he will be the last Cleaning Charm I have to perform today.”

“But can’t I get on by myself?” Harry grumbled. “Seriously … I feel like an exhibit at the zoo out here.”

“No. You cant be singled out.”

“To Merlin he cant!” Sirius fumed. “He already _has_ been, Minerva. By _everyone_ else! Come on, kiddo, lets get you boarded.”

Sirius glowered at Minerva for a challenge, but it never came. She acquiesced with a huff and Sirius wrapped an arm around Harry’s shoulders and guided him towards the gleaming scarlet steam engine.

“Thanks!” Harry puffed out. “I owe you.”

“I’ll just put it on your Dad’s tab!” Sirius grinned. “Right … take your pick!” Sirius made a sweeping gesture towards the empty train carriages. “Any compartment take your fancy?”

“The one on the very end,” Harry decided. “Maybe the others will all fill up and I’ll be left alone.”

“That’s the spirit!” Sirius quirked. “You’ll be making friends by the end of the day with that attitude! I expect to hear all about your antics with Nearly Headless Nick and Mrs Norris in no time!”

“ _Nearly_ Headless?” Harry queried. “How can you be _nearly_ headless?”

“You’ll see,” Sirius replied with a twinkle in his eye. “Come on, bring your owl this way.”

Harry obeyed and trotted after Sirius. They stowed his trunk into one of the overhead racks, plonked a very disgruntled Hedwig into an empty seat, then Sirius gave Harry’s hair one last ruffle as he left him alone in the carriage.

Harry sat opposite Hedwig and looked out of the window a moment. His view was largely obscured by the steam billowing all the way down the platform now, but soon he heard excited movement as the gaggle of first years began to board the train.

Harry sat tense and rigid, hoping no-one would enter his compartment. The train was the old sort, where all the compartments were on the left side and there was a long corridor spanning the length of the carriage. Harry had chosen a compartment right at the very end, near the toilet, and had to listen as a round-faced boy raced into it and was violently sick from nerves. Harry went to get up to see if he was okay, then fell back in shock.

For a _toad_ had suddenly leapt against the glass window of the compartment door!

Harry leapt back and clutched at his heart, then chided himself for being such a baby. He moved forwards and opened the door carefully, and took the toad in his hand. He looked at it a moment, wondering about how curiously docile it was. Then he heard a voice ahead of him.

“Oh … you found the toad … Neville had lost him … _oh_ …”

Harry looked up … and locked eyes with the pretty girl from that day at Flourish and Blotts. She blushed at the sight of him … _he_ blushed at the _sight_ of her blushing at the sight of him … then he remembered how to talk.

“Hello,” he said breezily. “Were you looking for this?”

He offered the toad with a strangely shaking hand.

“I was ... I was helping Neville to try to find it,” the girl replied in a minute voice. “It’s his.”

“Who’s Neville?”

“That’s me,” said the round-faced boy, brushing a trickle of vomit from his chin as he exited the toilet. “Thanks for finding Trevor. Here, I’ll take him now.”

So he did, then hurried off down the corridor. Harry looked at the still flushed girl. She seemed lost, uncertain. She still had her Hogwarts trunk behind her. This was weirdly awkward.

“Which is your compartment?” Harry asked. “Do you need a hand with your luggage?”

“I don’t have a compartment yet,” she replied quietly. “Everywhere seems full. I might have to look in the next carriage. I’d rather not, though ... some of those older kids look rather mean.”

“There’s room in mine! I mean, _this_ compartment, you know,” Harry suddenly blurted out. “If you want to share, I mean.”

Harry found himself blushing again and his palms were oddly sweaty. He would have given anything for an open window just then.

Then the girl smiled at him. “Yes, alright, that’s very kind of you. If you don’t mind sharing with a girl, of course!”

“I don’t mind,” Harry replied rather quickly. “Tell you what, you take a seat and I’ll sort your trunk out.”

“I can manage.”

“I’m sure you can, but let me,” Harry smiled. “I want to.”

“Alright … thank you,” the girl beamed, so bright and warm that Harry felt sure a part of his stomach had melted. He wondered which bit it was and if the damage was fatal. He busied himself gathering the trunk as the girl passed - rather close by - on the way into the compartment. Harry followed her in a moment later, lifted her trunk up with some difficulty, but between them they got it stowed away safely.

Harry sat down and puffed air to his forehead, to try and cool himself. Then he turned to his companion as the train began to slowly move.

“Your name was _Hermione_ , wasn’t it?” Harry asked cautiously. “Am I saying that right?”

“Yes, perfectly,” Hermione grinned back. “I’m surprised you remembered.”

"I never managed to introduce myself properly that day at the bookshop," Harry explained. "I was always taught to show good manners ... but I somehow forgot to, when we _sort of met_. It's bothered me a lot ever since. Sorry."

Hermione smiled shyly. "No need to be. You were a perfect gentleman. In any case, you _did_ introduce yourself - when you mistakenly signed your name on my Hogwarts invitation letter!"

“I knew I’d heard your name before!” Harry cried, slapping his head as if a thunderbolt had suddenly struck him on his scar. “Did I really I write my own name on your letter? I'm such a moron, _honestly!_ You must think I'm a total wally."

"Not at all," Hermione giggled. "But I assume that you _aren't_ the Hogwarts Deputy Headmistress!"

Harry relaxed and laughed deeply at his mistake. Hermione found the sound one of the most pleasant she'd ever heard. She wondered if she could make him laugh like that again. But then, Harry recalled more information about _her_.

"So, you’re the really special girl that Dumbledore found? He was ridiculously excited about you, apparently. He told my Godfather you were the brightest witch of your age he'd ever met. I cant wait to see what you can do.”

Hermione blushed so deeply that Harry was mildly concerned for her health.

“I … I don’t know that I’m _special_ ,” Hermione mumbled timidly.

“Well, Dumbledore thinks you are, and so does my Aunt Minerva ... and she's hardly ever wrong, so I believe her,” Harry informed her staunchly. “But you’ll have to call her Professor McGonagall. So will _I_ , come to think of it.” 

“ _She’s_ your Aunt?” Hermione whispered in reply. “Wow.”

“I’m not sure if she’s _really_ my Aunt,” Harry corrected. “But I just call her that. But I cant anymore, not now she’s my Professor and Deputy Head. But I do live with her.”

“Will that be strange for you? Not being able to call her Aunt?”

“Probably, but I’m sure I’ll get used to it,” Harry mused. “Especially if she starts giving me detention for being rubbish in class. Then I’ll be calling her some very _different_ names!”

Hermione giggled at that. Then she cleared her throat nervously. “You’re Harry Potter, aren’t you?”

Harry’s face fell and his mood nosedived in a second. “Yes, that’s me. But, despite what you’ve probably heard, I'm not all bad.”

“Heard? I’ve not heard anything,” Hermione informed him plainly. “I’m Muggleborn, you know.”

“Ah, okay,” Harry replied, brightening up again. “But how do you know who I am, then?”

“I heard people talking on Diagon Alley, and on the platform, being very nosey and silly and interfering, if you ask _me_ ,” Hermione began sniffily. “Then there was all the nonsense with that silly ginger fangirl at Flourish and Blotts. They should just leave you alone, I think. All wanting a piece of you like you’re public property. You should just tell them to go and boil their fat heads! I think I would ... if it were me.”

Harry felt a surge of affection for Hermione Granger in that moment. He grinned widely at her, he couldn’t help it. It was nice to have someone standing up for him who wasn’t Sirius or his parents. He rather thought he could get to like this girl a lot.

Then he remembered her bushy hair … and fell nervously quiet all of a sudden.

“Is that your owl?” Hermione went on, inclining her head at the cage in the next seat. Harry nodded numbly. “Well, she’s very beautiful. _Easily_ the prettiest owl I’ve seen today.”

“Don’t tell _her_ that!” Harry quirked in a warning whisper. “Hedwig already thinks she’s the prettiest owl alive. If she hears you _agreeing_ she’ll be coming to you all the time, looking for treats and compliments. You’ll never get a moments peace!”

“I could live with that,” Hermione replied quietly.

“But then you’d be stuck with me as a friend,” Harry pointed out.

“I could live with that, too,” Hermione mumbled, blushing shades of red so deep that Harry wasn’t sure what they were called.

What he _couldn’t_ see was that his cheeks were _exactly_ the same, which he should have guessed by how hotly they were burning.

Harry had to find a distraction before he spontaneously combusted. So he turned to the seat next to _him_ , where Hermione's fluffy ginger cat was padding around trying to get comfortable.

“What’s your pet called?” Harry asked.

“That’s Pa - um,” Hermione stuttered. She thought she'd better _not_ use her dæmon’s real name, just in case. She cast around for an alternative. Then she remembered how she’d described his bandy legs. “That’s _Crookshanks._ Yes, that’s his name.”

“Crookshanks,” Harry parroted. “How are you today?”

Then he did something that Hermione was powerless to stop.

He reached out … and _touched_ her dæmon.

Hermione felt her breath leave her in a startled rush. She was held utterly frozen, as Harry continued to gently stoke Papageno's thick fur. Hermione’s heart was racing at a million miles a minute at the usually taboo, forbidden contact, and she didn’t know how to tell Harry that he _mustn’t_ , that he _shouldn’t_ … but then, in a thought that startled her just as much as the breach of this invisible boundary of intimacy, she came to a shuddering realisation …

She didn’t _want_ him to stop.

That thought was too chaotic to process, and Hermione couldn’t even begin to deconstruct what it meant. In any case, she was still too mindless with the ongoing contact between Harry’s maddeningly soft skin and Papageno’s fur. So she chanced a look at her dæmon … and was astonished to find his eyes closed and that he was actually _purring_ under the touch! He should be ashamed of himself for being so brazen!

But he wasn’t, and neither was Hermione. But she hoped Harry would stop of his own volition soon, before she lost her mind … or her life from lack of oxygen.

“His fur is so fluffy!” Harry commented lightly, but Hermione heard it distantly, as if it were a radio signal from one of the moons of Saturn. But she managed to squeak out a reply.

“H-he normally doesn’t let anyone touch him,” she piped in a high-pitched octave.

Harry suddenly snatched his hand away and turned his eyes down reticently, as if he were being chastised. Hermione felt indescribably _colder_ for the loss of his touch on her dæmon, and almost whimpered as she felt it go. Even _Pap_ snappedopen his eyes and scowled at her. This was _very_ weird. Hermione felt dearly in need of some alone time to analyse it. Not that the thought of being away from Harry made her feel any better. In fact, it was a notion so abhorrent it actually made her three times _more_ confused.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled. “I should have asked.”

Hermione thawed at the sight of Harry’s guiltiness. She leaned over and, with a nervous breath in, squeezed his forearm gently.

“It’s alright, I wasn’t telling you off,” she breathed kindly. “I was just surprised, that’s all. He’s normally such a miserable old goat! But if Crookshanks likes someone, I usually find I like them, too. So … shall we be friends, Harry Potter?”

Harry looked down to where Hermione was still touching him, as though he’d discovered a brand new thing and was trying to work out what it was. Then he turned his eyes back to hers with a wide grin.

“Yes, I’d really like that, Hermione Granger,” Harry replied. “You’re my first ever friend, did you know?”

“No, I didn’t know,” Hermione hushed back with a little smile. “But I hope I’ll get to be your best one, too.”

They shared a moment, then the door to their compartment opened.

“Anything off the trolley, dears?”


	6. Serendipity

“So, you never told me where you were from.”

Hermione froze for a second, but hid it behind choosing another liquorice wand from the huge pile of sweets Harry had insisted on buying for them from the Lady With The Trolley. Her dentist parents would definitely _not_ approve of so much sugar in her diet, but they might permit it if they knew Hermione was sharing the diabetic feast with her future love.

And this show of generosity had only brought that future a little bit closer. At this rate, Hermione fancied she’d be in love before leaving the train!

But such musings were something best left for analysis later. For now, Harry’s question was still hanging between them … and it took all of Hermione’s will not to blurt out her complete truth.

“I’m from Oxford,” she eventually replied, biting off the end of the liquorice wand.

“Where all the Universities are?” Harry asked. “I bet it’s really grand there.”

“Do you know it then? Have you been?” Hermione asked, curiously.

“No, but I’ve seen pictures,” Harry explained. “To be honest, I don’t know very much at all about the world. I spent ten years living underground, see.”

“Yes, I read about that,” Hermione nodded. “What was that like? It was dark, I bet.”

“A bit dark, yeah,” Harry agreed. “I mean, there were hundreds and hundreds of lights everywhere, but it wasn’t like up here. When I first saw real sunlight, which was only about a year ago, it stung my eyes so badly, I cant tell you!”

“Wow. Was that the first time you’d seen it, then?”

“That I can remember,” Harry replied. “I suppose I must have seen it when I was a baby, but I don’t remember that. I’d like to see Oxford, though. Maybe you can show me one day.”

Harry suddenly flushed scarlet, as though worried he’d overstepped his boundaries. Hermione just smiled at him.

“Yes, alright,” she returned softly. “Best do it either when it’s really sunny or really snowy, though. All the old buildings look their prettiest like that. And I can show you all the famous colleges, if you like.”

“Yeah, I would like!” Harry blurted out enthusiastically. “If you don’t mind playing tour guide, that is!”

“For a _friend_ I wouldn’t,” Hermione grinned, colouring a little herself. “I can show you the one I always thought I’d go to.”

Harry blinked at her. “Did you have it all mapped out, then? Your future, I mean.”

Hermione had to hold her tongue again. This was _so_ hard _. “_ Yes, I sort of did. I was always quite good at school, and I enjoy studying. A _lot._ So I always supposed I’d just finish school, then go off to University after that. It’s just what people do, isn’t it?”

“I … I don’t really know,” Harry mumbled, fidgeting awkwardly. “I never really knew what I was going to do. I didn’t expect it to be like what other people did, but I didn’t really think much about it beyond that. I just thought it would sort of _happen_ … then I’d deal with it when it did. That makes me sound stupid and lazy, doesn’t it?”

“No, of course it doesn’t!” Hermione disagreed fiercely. “You had a _very_ unusual start in life, so you cant be blamed for not thinking about so-called _normal_ things. And just look at us now - I planned, you didn’t, but we’re in the same spot. It’ll probably be easier for _you_ because you’re prepared to go with the flow. But this is very much _against_ the flow, for me. I really don’t know what to expect.”

“Are … are you _afraid_ of that?” Harry asked gently, sounding surprised. Hermione gave him the impression of a girl who simply took things logically and in her stride. Being worried about something didn’t suit her. And, for some unfathomable reason, Harry found the concept of _Hermione Granger Afraid_ such an abhorrent one that he felt a bizarre urge to draw his wand and _duel_ it. How odd.

“I think I am a bit, yes. It’s the unknown aspect, I think. I never like not knowing things. And I’m facing all this on my own."

“No you’re not,” Harry replied staunchly. “You have me now. That may not be _much_ , because I don’t know a lot myself, but I’ll face everything with you, for what it’s worth.”

Hermione smiled sweetly at him. “That’s worth _a lot_. Thank you, Harry.”

There was something about the way she said his name that Harry liked very much. He couldn’t explain it, but he’d happily hear Hermione say it as often as was reasonable.

“In any case,” Harry went on. “You’ll probably have to help _me_ more than the other way round. I hear you are _very_ talented when it comes to magic.”

“Oh, I don’t know about _that_ ,” Hermione flushed hotly. “But my Mum always said I have _witch-oil_ in my soul. I never knew what that meant, but maybe it was _this_.”

“Sounds like it,” Harry nodded vehemently. “I hear you could cast all sorts of spells with Headmaster Dumbledore’s wand when he assessed you.”

“Well, yes, I suppose I _did_ do that,” Hermione replied meekly. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do with praise from Harry. All she knew was that it made her stupidly light-headed and flustered, which just wasn’t like her at all. “He just told me an incantation and a wand movement - all basic ones, of course - and it all worked for me. Maybe I was just lucky.”

“Or maybe you’re super gifted,” Harry argued fairly. “You’ll be much better than me. I bet I’ll be bottom of the class at everything.”

Harry wrung his hands as this pestering anxiety reared its head again in his mind.

“Of course you wont,” Hermione responded supportively. “Do you know any spells yet? Have you tried them?”

“No, my Godfather wouldn’t let me,” Harry explained. “And I only know one spell. It makes things levitate.”

“Oh, _wingardium leviosa_?” Hermione asked, pronouncing the spell perfectly. “I did that one. Get your wand out. Show me.”

Harry complied. Sirius had insisted on a special pocket being added to his robe sleeve, so Harry could store his wand safely there. Harry flicked his wrist and the wand slid into his hand. He grinned at Hermione as he instinctively handed it over.

“That’s nifty,” Hermione nodded in approval. “I’ll have to get my robes altered for something like that. It’s really handy, isn’t it? What’s your wand made from?”

“Holly and Phoenix feather,” Harry replied. “Yours?”

Hermione turned her eyes down shyly. “Well … can I tell you a secret? If I do, you’ll have to promise not to tell anyone.”

“Okay,” Harry whispered eagerly. He’d never had a friend to share a secret with before, and he found the notion brilliantly intoxicating now. “I promise.”

“Okay, well,” Hermione began shyly. “The thing is … I have _two_ wands. One for each hand. Actually, one of _them_ has a phoenix feather core, too.”

Harry gasped. He couldn’t help it. “You? You’re the _ambi-wandral_?”

Hermione went wide-eyed in her shock. “H-how do you know that?”

“Take your wand out, quick!” Harry instructed.

“Why?” Hermione asked, slightly suspicious.

“I showed you mine, so you have to show me yours!” Harry teased. “That’s the rules!”

“Very funny,” Hermione frowned seriously. “No, really … why are you all fervoured all of a sudden?”

“Because, I went into Ollivander’s right after you,” Harry explained excitedly. “I didn’t know that at the time, but he said he’d just sold the brother wand to the one _I_ was paired with. And that must be the one _you_ have! Did he tell you the phoenix had only given two feathers?”

“Yes, my wand had one,” Hermione breathed lowly. “And … _this_ wand has … the _other_ one?”

“Yeah! That’s what I’m trying to tell you!”

Hermione blinked as she tried to process all this. She looked at the wand, then at Harry, then at the wand again. On instinct, she drew her own. And she felt the power pulse through her instantly … the brother cores in each of her hands, the magical force pumping through her veins with intense bursts of energy. It was borderline overwhelming.

And the fact that _Harry_ had taken possession of the complimentary wand to one of her own … what did _that_ mean?

Malcolm’s voice echoed over and over in her mind … _serendipity, remember? …_ was this … was it just _meant to be_?

Hermione couldn’t hold that concept steady in her mind. But the evidence was mounting, the proof throbbing between her very fingers. Then Harry tried to bring her back from the dreamy stratosphere.

“Are you okay?” he asked in gentle concern. “Your eyes have gone all funny.”

“Oh, what? Sorry,” Hermione stuttered out. “It’s just the magic … it’s really potent having both of them together. Wow. I think I need to get used to using magic a _lot_ more before I hold your wand again. That makes me a little senseless.”

“What are the chances, though?” Harry marvelled. “You and me, having twin wands. Then we become friends. It’s pretty awesome, don’t you think?”

“Yes, very awesome,” Hermione agreed, still trying to bring her dizzying thoughts back under her control. “I wonder what it means, though? Why did the wands pick _us?_ ”

“I don’t know,” Harry grinned. “But we have a _long_ time to work that out, don’t we? Ooh, I really hope we get Sorted into the same House now. Do you know about the Four Houses?”

“Yes, I memorised that book you recommended to me, like I promised!” Hermione laughed, glad of something tangible like _books_ to get her back on track. “I hear Gryffindor is the best, so I think I’d rather like to be Sorted there. I think I’ll ask specifically for that.”

“Can you do that?” Harry asked, curious. “I didn’t read it anywhere.”

“I don’t know for sure,” Hermione began thoughtfully. “But the Sorting Hat will have to take in personal preference, wont it? I mean, if you sat there and thought _‘not Slytherin_ ’ it would have to be pretty cruel to Sort you into that House. It would be condemning you to seven years of misery, wouldn’t it?”

“I never thought of it like that,” Harry mused in reply. “So, are you going to ask to be put in Gryffindor?”

“Yes, I think so,” Hermione nodded. “I’ll try, anyway.”

“Then I will, too,” Harry decided. “School wont be half so scary if I have a friend there facing it with me.”

Hermione smiled shyly at him. “Then lets _both_ try and get into Gryffindor!”

“Agreed!” Harry laughed. “Do you really think that’s all there is to it? Putting a Hat on?”

“According to _Hogwarts: A History_ , yes,” Hermione answered. “There were some people on the platform being very silly about it. That big family of red-heads were telling the youngest boy that he’d have to wrestle a troll. He didn’t look like he fancied the idea.”

“That must be Ronald Weasley,” Harry suggested. “His name was on my list of Hogwarts letters. His Mum is _obsessed_ with my Godfather. She practically stalked him when they were in school!”

Hermione giggled at that. "That could be something to tease him about if he gives you a hard time. I bet he’ll try to talk to you, to try and get your autograph for his sister, or something.”

“Oh … you _saw_ that,” Harry mumbled coyly. “I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

“I noticed,” Hermione huffed. “And if I’d known how much you didn’t like it, I’d have gone and told her right off! I will if anyone else does something like that, you have my word.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. _Thank you_ didn’t seem to quite do it for him.

“You don’t have to do that,” he muttered, somewhat guiltily. “You don’t want people giving _you_ a hard time. And I certainly don’t, not on my account.”

“Like that’s even your decision to make!” Hermione cried. “You’re my friend now. And if someone tries to make you uncomfortable, they better watch out! I’ll be doing a _lot_ of experimenting with my magic … they don’t want to _accidentally_ get in the way, do they?”

She laughed at that and Harry relaxed. It seemed he was powerless to resist it in any case, but he didn’t think he’d ever have the vocabulary to tell Hermione how grateful he was to have met her today. So he just smiled at her and accepted her care.

By now, it was starting to get dark outside. Hermione slipped into the loo to change into her smart Hogwarts robes, and she and Harry spent a while comparing materials and tailoring. Then Hermione showed Harry _both_ her wands, and tried to console him when he didn’t feel the same surge of power _she_ did when handling both the Phoenix wands.

Then they were disembarking at Hogsmeade train station. The first-years got out first and huddled together as Hagrid corralled them under his enormous shadow. He called over to Harry as he spotted him.

“Alrigh’ there, Harry? How was the trip?” the Keeper of the Keys asked.

“Brilliant!” Harry beamed. “I made my first friend! This is Hermione Granger.”

“Hello,” Hermione muttered shyly, as Harry prompted her forward with a poke on her lower back.

“Hullo, Hermione!” Hagrid boomed. “Nice ter meet ya. I hope you’ll both pop down and see me soon, tell me how your first week goes.”

“We will, I promise,” Harry replied for them, despite Hermione looking dubious in the presence of this obscenely large and wild character.

“Good, good,” Hagrid replied. “I think that’s everyone here. Come on, first-years! Follow me!”

“Do you _know_ him?” Hermione whispered, tucking in close so only Harry could hear her.

“I met him at Christmas, and a few times since,” Harry clarified.

“But … he’s not a _normal_ man, is he?”

“No. He’s half-giant.”

“Which half?” Hermione pressed with a small chuckle. “How is that even _possible_?”

Harry ducked his head close so that he and Hermione were practically nose-to-nose. “I have no idea! I met him eight months ago and I _still_ cant work it out!”

“I don’t think I _want_ to!” Hermione laughed. “Eww … can you even _imagine? …_ yuk!”

“I think we’re about to eat!” Harry cried in his muffled mirth. “I don’t think I want _that_ vision in my head … especially if they serve giant _spotted dick_!”

“Harry!” Hermione rocked with shy giggles, clinging at his arm to keep herself upright. “That’s _terrible_! Imagine if they _do_ … I might not stop laughing all through the Feast!”

Harry rather thought he might like that. There was something lyrical about Hermione’s laugh. And the look it diffused over her face suited her more than Harry could describe. It made him shiver a little bit, as though he were looking at something secret and forbidden, but he’d been granted permission to do so. But it seemed a fair trade.

After all, he had silently given Hermione permission to grab him whenever she felt like it, so it was only right that if he wanted to watch her laugh and smile he should be allowed to. He didn’t think she’d mind, but he was all sorts of confused as to why he wanted to in the first place. Laughter hadn’t been a spectator sport before, after all. Though, oddly, this was one front-row seat Harry didn’t really want to share with anyone.

The weirdness of all this was cast aside a moment later, however, as Hagrid began guiding the students into a fleet of little boats that were lined up on the shore. He ushered Harry, Hermione, the boy Neville and his toad, into the first boat and got in himself. Once all the boats were full, Hagrid called out an order and they all started floating of their own accord.

They crossed a vast lake and under a towering arch covered in moss and ivy. Then they got their first look at Hogwarts castle, perched high up on an outcrop of rugged Scottish mountain rock. Hermione looked up at it, a memory popped into her mind, and she gasped out loud.

“Impressive, ain’t it?” Hagrid beamed at her.

Hermione nodded, but her mind was worlds away. She recognised the castle, the view beyond it … she’d seen this all before. Just then, Papageno - who till this point had been safely tucked up inside Hermione’s overcloak - poked his head up close to Hermione’s ear. He took a look around, to make sure no-one was watching, then muttered lowly so only Hermione could hear.

“It’s the castle … from your dream. The one with the spangled ring!”

“Yes, I know!” Hermione hushed back. “Oh Pap! We must be in the right place then! It feels like it’s all coming together.”

“Serendipity,” Pap whispered to her. “Dust has led us here … now it’s up to us to find out what to do next.”

“I already know what I have to do … and I think it’s already started.”

Hermione chanced a shy smile at the back of Harry’s head. He was sat so close to her in the boat that she could feel the rhythm of his breathing against the rocking of the tide. For some reason, Hermione found the motion insanely comforting. She didn’t understand it, but she wasn’t insensible to what it probably meant.

Was this what it felt like … when you started to _fall in love_?

Right then, Hermione would have bet the fate of all the worlds that it _was_. And she was just _loving_ the sensation.

The boats suddenly banged against the other shore of the lake. Hagrid led them up a steep, winding stone staircase to a huge oak door, which he knocked on three times. The door opened, and Minerva McGonagall appeared, framed against flickering torchlight from somewhere behind her. She smiled at Harry as she caught his eye, and at the girl impossibly close at his shoulder.

“Thank you, Hagrid. I shall take them from here.”


	7. The Sorting

There was a little antechamber just off to the side of the Great Hall. In normal term time, it was here that naughty students were forced to eat in solitary confinement away from their classmates. It had no windows, just one floating candle high up in the gloom, and smelled strongly of cabbage. Quite why _this_ was, nobody could remember anymore, but it did make the place distinctly unpleasant.

It was into this oppressive environment that Minerva McGonagall deposited the forty or so first-years who were huddled together so tightly that a decent sized tablecloth could have probably covered the lot of them. Then she turned her stern expression on the frightened little faces.

“Very shortly, the Sorting will begin,” Professor McGonagall announced briskly. “Your House will be like your family here at Hogwarts. You will eat with your Housemates, sleep with your Housemates - ( _“I hope that’s not LITERALLY true_!” Hermione whispered teasingly into Harry’s ear, making him need to stifle a giggle) - and study with your Housemates. Points can be won for high academic performance, for Quidditch, for participation in the school societies, and at the end of the year these points are totalled up and the House Cup is awarded. This is an ancient and prestigious honour, and I expect all students to strive to uphold this vaunted tradition, whichever House you are Sorted into.”

“But more for _Gryffindor_ , as she’s Head of that House!” Harry whispered with a grin at Hermione.

“Maybe she’ll award you fifty points just for getting in!” Hermione hushed back.

“Or take fifty _off_ if I get dumped into Slytherin!”

“I shall go and make the preparations for the Sorting,” Professor McGonagall continued. Then she turned her eyes on Harry, and a little twinkle was born in them. “And I do hope Mr Potter and Miss Granger will stop nattering to each other long enough to hear when their names are called!”

“Sorry,” Harry and Hermione chorused dolefully, blushing deeply as several people snickered around them.

“Very well,” Professor McGonagall replied, the corners of her mouth twitching as Harry grinned cheekily at her. “I shall return for you shortly.”

Little conversations burst out like hissing wildfires as soon as Professor McGonagall closed the door behind her. Harry heard someone out of sight say - _“That’s really him then, really Harry Potter!”; “He’s shorter than he looks in his pictures.” -_ and Harry was sorely tempted to ask just how big their copies of the magazines were if he had subverted their expectations about his height.

But Hermione was listening intently to a conversation over near the door. Neville and his toad were there, and Hermione had been paying him particular attention ever since they’d gotten off the boat. Harry wasn’t sure what he thought about that, beyond a bizarre urge to push Neville out of the moving Hogwarts Express next time they were on it.

But Hermione was curiously attentive to the lanky, red-headed boy that Neville was talking to. He was muttering very fast and waving his arms in an exaggerated and theatrical fashion. It made him look like some sort of demented human windmill. Harry edged closer to hear what he was saying.

“So, what you have to do is move _very_ fast, as they are stupid and easily distracted,” he was advising.

“But what about the _club_?” Neville asked, sounding truly petrified. “How do you avoid _that_?”

“They don’t always have clubs,” came the reply.

“Yes they do, Ron,” a tall, statuesque girl with elaborately curly hair argued. “Everyone knows _trolls_ always carry clubs.”

“Why are you talking about trolls?” Hermione asked breezily.

“Because Ron says we have to wrestle one in order to get Sorted,” Neville explained.

“Yeah, so I’m just giving him tips on how to survive,” Ron completed boastfully.

Hermione placed her hands on her hips and said, in quite a bossy voice, “Go on, then. Tell me as well. It’s the kind of thing I think we all should know.”

Suddenly, _everyone_ went quiet to listen. Ron shifted awkwardly from foot-to-foot and Harry could see his cheeks had turned a similar colour to his flaming hair.

“Well, you … er, sort of …” Ron blundered. “Dive around a bit. Then you kick it in the knees, because they’re really sensitive down there.”

“Are they really?” Hermione asked in a surprised tone and an exaggeratedly innocent expression. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, and not only that,” Ron went on eagerly, seemingly encouraged by Hermione’s interest, which Harry thought was singularly stupid of him as even _he_ could tell Hermione was being sarcastic. “But their knees are their _down there_ … you know, their _privates_. That’s why they are so sensitive.”

“Where did you read that?” Hermione asked sweetly. “I’ve memorised all our textbooks, you know, and I didn’t come across that _important_ piece of information anywhere.”

“Oh, well, my brother told me,” Ron explained awkwardly.

“And has _he_ fought many trolls?” Hermione enquired.

“Well, I suppose he _must_ have, when he was Sorted, you know.”

“I don’t think any of this is right,” Hermione announced decisively. “I don’t think you have to wrestle _anything_ to get Sorted. What sort of an initiation would _that_ be? To a _school_ , of all things. No, I think your brother was just having you on. You know, _making fun of you._ ”

Ron flushed deeper still. “What makes you think you know any better? Just because you read some _book?_ Being a know-it-all doesn’t make you right.”

Several people gasped lowly, surprised by Ron’s prickly tone.

“That was a little uncalled for,” Hermione retorted, the hurt evident in her tone. “I was just saying -”

“Well, _don’t_ ,” Ron spat. “If all you do is embarrass people, it might be best if you don’t _say_ very much at all.”

“Be careful,” Harry hissed, his voice low and dangerous, as he stepped forward and placed himself between Ron and Hermione.

“O-or what?” Ron stuttered, as Harry looked up and eyeballed him fiercely.

He may have been taller than Harry, but he hadn’t survived an attack by a Dark Lord. Such a thing tended to give the survivor a bit of an aura of mystique. Ron Weasley wasn’t insensible of who he was talking to, even if his mouth was writing cheques his magic couldn’t cash.

“ _Or_ ,” Harry began pointedly. “You might make me dislike your family even more than I already do. And I’m sure you’d rather be making friends than enemies on your first day, wouldn’t you?”

“Maybe, but I don’t want to make friends with the _wrong sort_ ,” Ron returned evenly, shooting an ugly look at Hermione over Harry’s shoulder. “And neither should you. I can help you with that.”

He held out his hand for Harry to shake. Harry looked down at it … and _actually_ laughed at the gesture.

“I was raised well, by _good_ people _,_ I’m more than capable of deciding on the _right sort_ for myself, thanks,” Harry replied smoothly.

“Oh, and if I’m _wrong_ , and you _do_ have to wrestle a troll,” Hermione added sassily. “Hit it with your bleeding stump, because that’s probably all you’ll have left!”

Then she placed her hand on the small of Harry’s back and guided him away from the crowd, where both decided to pay Ron Weasley as little attention as they could get away with.

A few moments later and Professor McGonagall returned. She looked at them all, suspicious at why they were all so silent. But she must have decided it was simply first-day nerves, for she didn’t press for any further details.

“Attention everyone,” Professor McGonagall began. “You will now follow me into the Great Hall. You will line up in front of the High Table, and when I call your name you will sit on the stool at the front of the Hall and place the Sorting Hat on your head. The Hat will then choose your House, and you will join your fellows at the assigned table. Any questions?”

“What if the Hat doesn’t pick a House for you?” Harry asked. “Or decides you’re an idiot and sends you home?”

Several people snickered behind him and Hermione poked him in the side, to tell him off for being so silly. So he just looked at her with a loaded expression, to try and communicate that it was a genuine question. She seemed to understand, and blinked by way of apology for assaulting his ribcage.

“In that case, Mr Potter,” Professor McGonagall replied lightly. “We shall snap your wand and Apprentice you to Hagrid. I understand he never can have enough Keepers for his colony of Acromantula!”

Harry smirked back at his guardian, as somewhere behind him Ron Weasley was whispering in abject terror about being carted away by one of the giant spiders for their dinner.

Professor McGonagall opened the door and led them into the Great Hall, where they lined up facing the rest of the school. Harry felt like a piece of cattle being led to market, and tried to offset his nerves by seeing how many pointed hats he could count among the sea of seated students. Then he caught sight of the battered old Sorting Hat and was hit with a new fear - he hoped no-one else had nits or dandruff. For that would be a wonderfully embarrassing way to spend his first week at a new school.

Then the Sorting Hat sang some song about the qualities each House possessed, which Harry thought was actually a great way to create rivalry between everyone, because of course it was unthinkable for a Hufflepuff to be brave or a Slytherin honourable. Harry rather hoped he _wasn’t_ Sorted into Gryffindor, just so that Sirius could come to the school and make good on his promise to set the stupid Hat on fire.

Then the Sorting began. Sometimes the Hat decided right away, with others it took more time deliberating. Harry grinned widely when it was Hermione’s turn, watching as she muttered _“Gryffindor, please … Gryffindor, please,”_ rapidly under her breath. She got her wish, and beamed widely as she gave a thumbs-up to Harry and skipped off towards the Gryffindor table.

There were a whole host of other students Sorted, and then …

“Harry Potter.”

A thousand heads snapped in Harry’s direction as he walked solemnly across the hall. Hagrid grinned at him, Professor McGonagall beckoned him towards the Sorting Stool with a smile and an outstretched hand. Harry placed the Hat on. It was so wide-brimmed that it came down over his eyes. The last thing he saw was every student craning to get a good look at him.

Then Harry was in total darkness staring at the inside of the Hat.

“Now, where to put _you,_ ” a croaky voice whispered in his ear.

“Look, I’ll make this really easy for you,” Harry muttered back. “Either you put me the same place you put Hermione Granger, or you’re going to have a nasty run in with Sirius Black, his wand, and a quantity of very hot magical fire!”

“Ah, I remember Sirius Black,” the Hat replied balefully. “In that case, better be GRYFFINDOR!”

The Gryffindor table erupted and chants of _“We got Potter!”_ rang out from somewhere. Harry ignored them and made for Hermione, who looked very relieved. Oddly, she had white marks on her cheeks, as if her fingernails had been digging into them.

“I saved you a seat … just in case,” Hermione beamed widely, patting the bench next to her as Harry reached the table.

“Thanks,” Harry grinned back as he slid down at her side. “I saw you asking politely to be Sorted into Gryffindor. I’m glad the Hat did as it was told!”

“What were _you_ saying to it?” Hermione asked, as Ron Weasley was Sorted into Gryffindor somewhere in the background.

“I threatened to have it set on fire if it didn't put me into Gryffindor!” Harry laughed.

“That works, too!” Hermione giggled.

The Sorting finished with Blaise Zabini joining Slytherin House. Then Dumbledore stood up and announced that they would all sing the school song, conjuring a giant ribbon of lyrics from his wand. It was, in Harry’s humble opinion, the very worst and stupidest song ever written. And that was saying something, as Sirius had often made Harry watch _Britain's Got Talent_ with him, which Harry quickly decided was false advertising on the part of the 'talent' show. The fact that Dumbledore allowed everyone to sing with their own tune and pace was equally as stupid, and Harry was certain the horrendous cacophony was likely to make his ears bleed.

“Well, that was … _different_ ,” Hermione frowned, scrunching her nose as the last of the singers completed a sort of funeral march rendition.

“I noticed _you_ didn’t sing!” Harry teased. “Not much of a songstress, eh?”

“I’ll have you know I sing like an angel,” Hermione replied haughtily. “When the mood or music takes me.”

“And that didn’t hit the right notes for you?” Harry quirked.

“Really? How can you even ask that!?” Hermione decried incredulously. “ _Hoggy, warty, Hogwarts?_ Honestly! I didn’t see you singing either, by the way.”

“I have it on good authority that I sing like a warthog being squashed by a steamroller!” Harry explained piously. “It was a service to the school for me to stay quiet!”

Hermione laughed at that, just as Dumbledore addressed the students again.

“Could I have everyone’s attention for a few start of term notices,” the Headmaster began. “Mr Filch has given me an updated version of the Banned and Dangerous Items list. A copy will be available for viewing on your Common Room Noticeboards. First-years will find a Welcome Pack, including school map, rulebook and timetable in their dorm rooms from tomorrow morning.

“As always, the Forbidden Forest and Shrieking Shack are out of bounds. Furthermore, students are not permitted to enter the Third Floor Corridor, on the right-hand side, for the time being. A giant hole has made its home on the floor there, and we are still trying to work out how to close it. Any student who happens to fall in may reasonably expect to not be rescued for several years. Thank you.”

Hermione frowned at the Headmaster, as the tables suddenly groaned under a veritable cornucopia of food.

“He is a very odd man, that one,” Hermione mused.

“Ah, you picked up on that too?” Harry cried gleefully. “Great. I thought it was just me being mean.”

“You? I don’t think you’re capable of being mean,” Hermione replied, confused.

“Oh, I am,” Harry nodded solemnly. “I’ll have you know I can be very evil when I want to be.”

“I’ll be sure to be on my guard!” Hermione chortled in reply.

There was much eating and chatter after that. Luckily for Harry and Hermione, spotted dick wasn’t on the menu, so they were able to eat in companionable comfort and not have to explain their childish giggling to the rest of Gryffindor House. Talk was dominated by getting to know new people, speculation about lessons, the Muggleborn students explaining how they discovered they were magical, while the Magicalborns nattered excitedly about Quidditch and Gobstones tournaments.

Hermione was genuinely stunned that Harry didn’t know any of the other students, and had only a fleeting knowledge of their families. But _Harry_ was more interested in how Hermione knew Neville, and why she kept shooting furtive glances at him down the table.

Hermione wouldn’t realise what this might mean until later that night, and the understanding would make her so mindlessly giddy that she would barely get any sleep after it.

But for now, Hermione was more cautious in her explanation, lest she let something slip. Papageno was in her mind, too, prompting her to keep her wits sharp. Which was hard, as he was out chasing mice in the grounds and was getting so over-excited by it that Hermione was finding his enthusiasm distracting.

“Oh, my parents used to know his,” Hermione explained, talking low so that _Neville_ couldn’t hear them. It would be bad enough if Harry knew the truth about her origins, but if Neville knew his parents were perfectly healthy in another world he might die of the shock. And Hermione didn’t want _that_ on her conscience. “My Mum asked me to keep an eye out for him, because he’s quite nervous and clumsy, apparently.”

“Oh, _right_!” Harry breathed out in relief, which was an odd response he thought. “So you’re just trying to make sure he’s okay?”

“Yes, pretty much,” Hermione replied. Then she looked questioningly at Harry. “Why? Why else do you think I’d be doing it?”

“I don’t know,” Harry mumbled into his ice cream. “But that’s very good of you, you know. Looking out for him like that.”

“Well, I did promise my Mum,” Hermione returned plainly. “ _Look after Neville Longbottom_ , she said. So I will, if I can.”

“Longbottom?” Harry queried, looking up suddenly. “My Mum was friends with an _Alice_ Longbottom. I wonder if its the same one your Mum knew? She said her son might be starting school at the same time as me.”

“When’s that? 8.45?” Hermione teased with a laugh.

“Ho ho!” Harry replied dully. “You know what I mean.”

“I was just playing, Harry!” Hermione smirked, nudging his shoulder with her own. “Don’t be so grouchy.”

“I cant promise _that_!” Harry smirked.

“Oh, _of course_ , you can be very evil,” Hermione nodded sagely. “I’ll be better behaved for you from now on, just in case!”

“That would be nice,” Harry grinned. “But the Longbottoms … do you reckon they could be the same?”

“Possibly,” Hermione replied evasively. “I’ll have to send a message to my Mum, ask her for Mrs Longbottom’s first name.”

“You can borrow my owl, if you like,” Harry offered. “You can use Hedwig any time you need to send a letter, actually. I’m sure it would be better than using the smelly school owls.”

“That’s very generous of you, Harry,” Hermione swooned, blushing faintly. “Do you think she’ll mind?”

Harry hooted out a laugh. “You called her _the most_ _beautiful owl_ you'd seen… she’ll be your slave for life after _that_!”

Very soon, desserts were cleared and the students rose and began filing away towards their respective Common Rooms. Harry and Hermione joined the flow behind Percy Weasley, who was a Gryffindor Prefect. It was a good thing other people knew the way, because Harry was lost after just a few of the _many_ staircases they took.

Soon they came to a halt in front of a large painting, of an equally large woman in a shocking pink dress. Percy gave them the password (‘ _Harmony_ ’) and then the students flocked into the circular Common Room. Returning students headed off for their assigned dorms, while the Head Prefects explained that the five first-year boys would be housed in the top dorm of the boys tower, while the new girls were on the third floor of the girls side. Then they bade them to bed.

Before they parted for the night, Hermione turned to Harry.

“Meet up for breakfast in the morning?” she asked, so sweetly that Harry found it almost achingly appealing.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” Harry replied. They stood awkwardly a moment. “Night, then.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”


	8. A Birthday Secret

A row had broken out in the Gryffindor Boys Tower top dorm. That was to say it had _re-erupted_ , having kicked off the night before, continued on into breakfast and showed no signs of a ceasefire anytime soon. Hermione sagely advised Harry to follow the roving battleground and try to play peacemaker, and Harry thought he ought to go along with her suggestion, for - as she rightly pointed out - his Aunt Minerva would be quite displeased if there was a death in the first-year dormitory and Harry hadn’t at least _tried_ to prevent it.

For Neville Longbottom and Ron Weasley had been at each others throats since they first tried to claim one of the four-poster beds in the circular tower dorm. Ron was still being grouchy with Harry for the rebuke in refusing to shake hands, and _Neville_ was still very cross with Ron for terrorising him with the threat about troll wrestling. So Ron didn’t want a bunk near Harry, and Neville didn’t want a bunk near Ron, and Harry wasn’t sure he wanted a bunk near _either_ of them, for his own conflicted opinions about both.

In the end, though, Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan - the other first-year boys - got so thoroughly annoyed with the squabbling that they took the two central bunks and confined Ron to one end of the dorm and Harry and Neville to the other. Suitably chastised, all of them accepted and went to bed.

But Neville was still angry the next morning. He was dreadfully homesick already, having been shunted from one set of fears about the troll to another, when Professor Snape sneered at him during the Feast. Neville seemed to take this as the Potions Master deliberately picking on him already, and he was now terribly nervous about their first Potions class.

Hermione had tried her best to pacify him over breakfast, and even pompous Percy Weasley chimed in that Snape looked like that at _every_ student from time to time, so Neville shouldn’t take it personally. Then Ron muttered something incoherent under his breath, which Neville took as a dig at him, and the row from the previous night started all over again.

Harry took over Hermione’s role as Keeper of the Peace when they parted in the Common Room, to get ready for their first class of the day. Ron and Neville continued their spat all the way up the stairs and into the dorm, and eventually Harry decided he had to step in before things got ugly.

“Look, Ron, why cant you just admit you were wrong, say sorry, then all this can be forgotten?” Harry implored. It was strange for a moment that he’d chosen to side with Neville, but he thought that’s what Hermione would probably prefer him to do, which had ultimately made up his mind.

“Me! Say _sorry!_ ” Ron cried, rounding on Harry now. “Why should I?”

“What … apart from it being _the right thing to do?”_ Harry shot back incredulously. “Do you _need_ another reason?”

Ron’s cheeks were tinted pink a moment, but he was far from done. “Just because you’ve got a _girlfriend_ in that know-it-all Granger girl, doesn’t make _you_ right, either.”

Harry choked back a surge of _something_ , though whether it was anger or weird embarrassment he wasn’t sure. But he was stirred by Ron’s attack on Hermione nonetheless.

“Firstly, she’s _not_ my girlfriend, just a friend,” Harry began acridly. “Second, this has got nothing to do with _her_ , or being a know-it-all, it just happens to be right for the sake of being _right_. And third, if you carry on insulting Hermione you and I are going to have a serious falling out, and that might involve you _falling out_ of a very high window or down the longest staircase of the castle! Do you get that?”

“Harry, he’s not worth it,” Neville tried to pacify, switching roles with Harry and becoming peacemaker.

“Oh, ganging up on me now, are we?” Ron spat. “Great. Really nice, that.”

“Sweet Merlin you have one hell of a chip on your shoulder, don’t you?” Harry observed casually, which caused Ron to falter in his ire. “You’re in the wrong, you cant even admit it, now you’re blaming other people for calling you out about it. You wont make many friends if you keep that attitude up. Just saying.”

“Yeah … well don’t,” Ron replied grumpily, but Harry’s speech seemed to have taken some of the fight out of him. “I’ll make plenty of friends without _your_ help. Not everyone needs Harry stinking Potter in their lives, you know.”

“Good luck with that,” Harry volleyed back. “But somehow I don’t think that me and Hermione will be among them.”

“No, nor _me_ ,” Neville added bitterly. “Good-day, Ron. Come on, Harry, we don’t want to be late for our first class.”

And just like that Harry and Neville became friends. There was an old saying about the enemy of one’s enemy being your friend, and while Harry agreed that Ron probably wasn’t _worthy_ enough to be called an enemy, Neville quickly proved that he could be a sure and true friend. He was the sort of friend to laugh with when getting lost when the staircases moved, and to indulge in wild speculation about what might be hiding down the massive hole on the Third Floor.

And, of course, Hermione was just _delighted_ that Harry and Neville had made friends. Harry quickly decided that making Hermione _happy_ was pretty much the most powerful form of motivation he’d ever discovered, or that _anyone_ had ever discovered, actually. He wondered that no-one had told him about this before, or if he should tell anyone else about it. He decided not to, growing quickly covetous of this secret, and very weird, form of inducement he’d found completely by accident.

* * *

The first week passed in something of a confused haze. Harry, usually with either Hermione or Neville for company, spent most of it taking the wrong staircases to classes, or learning which doors needed to be tickled rather than knocked to open, or making little notes on his map of where suits of armour and portraits were so he could find his way around next time.

This usually led to Harry getting even _more_ cross, as he realised that _everything_ liked to move about, meaning his little symbols and annotations were largely useless. This led to Hermione being quite peeved with Harry on Wednesday night, when he took a wrong turn and ended up near the music rooms on the Fourth Floor when he should have been at the astronomy tower.

This meant Professor Sinistra had paired Hermione with Ron. It was unclear who was more unhappy about this, but Hermione soon settled the matter, inadvertently breaking her new telescope when she tried to hit Ron with her hat, for making continuous jokes about seeing Uranus …

Three times a week they had Herbology lessons in the greenhouses, which soon became Neville’s favourite class. Hermione was torn between preferring Charms - where she and Harry could continue their wild speculations about inter-species breeding practices, in relation to tiny Professor Flitwick - or Transfiguration.

Harry teased her that this was just because she was becoming Professor McGonagall’s Teacher’s Pet, after she was the only one who made any impression on the matchstick they were supposed to be turning into a needle during their first lesson. It had turned all shiny and pointy, and Professor McGonagall had used Hermione’s effort as an example to the class, which turned _Hermione_ all shiny, as her cheeks flushed with shy embarrassment.

Defence Against The Dark Arts was a joke of a lesson. Harry couldn’t concentrate when looking at Professor Quirrell’s turban, and remembering how Sirius had donned a similarly ridiculous disguise during the early days of Harry knowing him. Hermione was distracted, too. Her unusual cat had run away from Quirrell during a break between classes, and ever since Hermione had been wary of the Defence Professor, though she was unusually coy when Harry pressed her for more details about why.

Then there was Potions, which Harry had been quite looking forward to, but swiftly realised would be a Seven-year irritant. For Professor Snape was just a malicious cretin of a man. He didn’t seem to pay Harry much attention, and Harry thought perhaps he reminded the sallow-faced brewer too much of his mother, which either pained him or made him uneasy and sorrowful. Harry was cheerily content with either explanation, but he was less pleased with Snape’s attitude to others.

In particular, he took aim at Neville - who was an easy target on account of his nerves - and Hermione, just because her intelligence meant he couldn’t humiliate her. Well, not in the way he intended, at least. But he did, just the same, mocking her for being a know-it-all when she tried to answer every one of the first seven questions Snape posed to the class.

Hermione stayed very quiet after that, fighting tears that were welling in her eyes. Harry glowered at Snape for the rest of the lesson, and even flicked a glare at Ron, who looked oddly meek, as though suddenly understanding that he was acting the same as the vicious Potions Master, who had already chastised the youngest Weasley boy in a loud voice when he melted his cauldron, after getting his brewing technique wrong.

Harry was so incensed at the end of the lesson that he packed Hermione’s things away for her, then placed a hand on her back and guided her all the way to Professor McGonagall’s office, which is where Hermione’s tears finally came out.

“What in the world is wrong!” Minerva cried in distress, hurrying to Harry and Hermione as soon as the door closed. She tried to prize Hermione’s head away from Harry’s shoulder, where it had been nestled to collect her tears.

“That … that … _man!”_ Harry hissed angrily. “That cruel, horrible … _Snivelly_ little dickhead!”

Harry was beyond rage, so Minerva didn’t even try and reprimand him. She just let him vent.

“Sirius was right!” Harry fumed on. “He’s a foul, worthless little cockroach! A slimeball! A rat! A flea on a rat … an _amoeba_ on a flea on a rat! Next time I’m going to do what Sirius told me to - and throw a Stinging Pimple solution right in his greasy, stupid face!”

Harry finally drew breath. He felt Hermione snake an arm around his waist and hug him shyly, as if by way of thanks for defending her. But Minerva was still sternly waiting for an explanation. She looked at Harry, between him and Hermione, wondered what was happening _there_ and what could have gone on to stir Harry’s passions so much.

Though it didn’t take a genius to work the real reason for _that_ out.

“Miss Granger, calm down and take a seat,” Minerva began, gently. “Harry doesn’t have the capacity for rational thought just now. So I’m hoping you might bring a bit of sensibility to this situation!”

Harry huffed at his guardian and tried not to be too irritated by her little smirk. But Hermione gave a weak sort of giggle and Harry was rendered temporarily inert by the sound. So he let her go when she gently disengaged herself from him and sat down. Minerva offered her a tissue she conjured from mid-air and Hermione dried her eyes.

“It was Professor Snape,” Hermione sniffed quietly. “We just had Potions and … he was quite unkind to me.”

“ _Quite unkind_?!” Harry cried incredulously. “He was downright _nasty_ , Aunt Min! He humiliated her just for trying to answer his questions! What kind of a teacher does that?! It shouldn’t be allowed. I have half a mind to write to Sirius and ask him to take it up with Dumbledore … or duel Snape and kill him!”

“Harry - calm yourself before you have an aneurysm,” Minerva returned evenly. “Severus Snape has a certain - ah, shall we say - _shortness_ when it comes to his students. But he is an excellent Potion Maker and what he lacks in temperance towards his students he makes up for in knowledge.”

“So that’s it?” Harry raged. “We just have to put up with it?”

“I’m afraid so,” Minerva replied blankly. “You wont always come across people you get on with in life. See this as another lesson, to learn to deal with those who antagonise you.”

“Oh, I’ll deal with him alright,” Harry promised darkly. “I’m going to find a way to turn him into a tin of Pedigree Chum and feed him to that giant dog of Hagrid’s if he carries on! What’s the spell for that?”

Minerva chuckled lowly. “Harry, seriously now, take a breath and calm down. I cant have you threatening to murder members of the Faculty just because they weren’t very nice to some of your new friends. I hope you know what you’re getting into, Miss Granger. My ward is a feisty one, in case you haven’t noticed!”

Hermione smiled shyly at Harry, still pulsating in his anger. “I’ve noticed. I think it’s one of my favourite things about him, actually.”

Harry was oddly churned by that. The idea that Hermione had _favourite things_ \- plural - about him was a cheering one. It made Harry forget about his anger in a second, as if it had never been there in the first place.

“Very well,” Minerva announced standing up. “If you’ve quite calmed down now - both of you - why don’t you run along and enjoy the afternoon sun? We wont get many more days of it, you know.”

“Will you at least speak to Professor Snape?” Harry insisted. “Just to tell him to ignore us, or something.”

“I cannot tell another Professor how to run their classes,” Minerva replied firmly. “You will just have to learn to acclimatise to his _unique_ style.”

“Fine,” Harry huffed. “But I’m still writing to Sirius. I know _he’ll_ be on my side.”

“My _side_ is not in question, Harry,” Minerva reminded him. “But it’s sticks and stones. If you want to get back at Professor Snape, don’t allow him to _get_ to you. Beat his expectations, don’t give him a reason to get a rise out of you. He’ll hate that, if he has to give you top marks.”

“Then that’s what we’ll get,” Hermione stated decisively. “Come on, Harry. Take me to meet Hagrid. I want to see this giant dog you mentioned.”

“A fine idea, Miss Granger,” Minerva nodded approvingly. “Oh, and Harry … Quidditch try-outs are next week. I’ve bent the rules to allow first-years to participate for _my_ House only. I intend for you to make the team and help to steamroller Slytherin … that will _really_ wipe the smirk off Professor Snape’s chops!”

* * *

As it turned out, Hermione was quite disappointed with Hagrid’s ‘big dog’. Harry had promised her that it was a monstrous thing with three-heads, but all they found at Hagrid’s hut was a rather large boarhound that slobbered all over them. Despite Harry’s insistence that this was a different dog, Hermione was half-convinced that Harry had just gotten carried away and imagined the whole thing, an idea further enhanced by Hagrid shooting down any of Harry’s entreaties to him to back him up.

After a fortnight into their time at Hogwarts, Hermione asked if she could borrow Hedwig to send a letter to Lyra and Mal, who were simply referred to as ‘her parents’. Harry reminded her, again, that she didn’t have to ask, and could use his owl whenever she liked. Hedwig backed up this situation almost every morning. For when she flew in with the other post owls, she would more often than not perch on Hermione’s shoulder instead of Harry’s. He didn’t mind this in the slightest, as Hedwig tended to steal _Hermione’s_ toast instead of his, brought _her_ the presents of dead mice and other small rodents, and Harry was spared the daily scratches of Hedwig’s sharp claws where they dug into his clavicle.

But the odd looks some of the _older_ students gave to these displays were something that Harry couldn’t figure out at all.

However, when Harry asked what Hermione was writing home about, the answer he received made him feel terribly guilty.

“Oh, well, it’s my birthday next week,” Hermione informed him breezily. “I don’t want my Mum to forget just because I’m not at home now.”

Harry froze. “Y-your _birthday_?”

“Yes,” Hermione replied. “Why do you look so shocked? We all have them, you know.”

“Oh, yeah, I know,” Harry returned quickly. “I just didn’t know yours was so soon, that’s all. I feel bad now.”

“Why?”

“Because you didn’t say … and I haven’t gotten you anything,” Harry moaned. “I would have, if I’d known.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Hermione replied, blushing shyly.

“I know I don’t _have_ to,” Harry explained. “But I want to. I feel awful now.”

“Dont, please,” Hermione soothed. “Just being friends is present enough. And it’s a gift that will keep on giving, think of it like that!”

“That’s a cop-out,” Harry grumbled. He felt thoroughly miserable with himself. “We are definitely going to have a little party, though. Just me and you. I’ll get my Godfather to send me a ton of sweets, and we’ll get some pumpkin pie, and some strawberry juice, and all the cake we can steal from the kitchens, then have a midnight feast on your birthday.”

“That sounds lovely,” Hermione beamed.

So they did. Hedwig was sequestered to fly back and forth to Hogsmeade and carry all the sweets Sirius had ordered to be delivered to Harry, while Neville helped with the cake-stealing escapades and provided cover when Harry and Hermione slipped out just before curfew and made their way to the shores of the Great lake, where Harry had set up a little picnic for them.

It was likely to leave them both in a diabetic coma, but it was Hermione’s twelfth birthday and there were worse ways to go, in Harry’s estimation.

Harry had one of the best nights ever. It felt a little delinquent to be out so late, but they could still see the lights of the castle so they didn’t feel they were being too rebellious. It was more like camping in the back garden than running off to some illicit scheme. They talked about their birthday memories, ate more sweets than was advisable, and ended up feeding half the pumpkin pie to Hermione’s cat, who had joined them as a sort of chaperone.

It was when the moon started scudding across the cloudy sky that Hermione decided they’d pushed their luck long enough and should return to the castle. But she was anxious about the prospect, not wanting to get caught out of bed and lose the house points she’d won that day for knowing about Switching Spells in Transfiguration.

But Harry was ready for her. He grinned as he presented his solution.

“Now, I know I’ve been a sorry excuse for a friend for not getting you something for your birthday,” he began, silencing Hermione’s raft of complaints with a single wave of his hand. “I should have got you a _proper_ gift, but I’ll make up for that at Christmas. I may not have been able to get you anything, but I can _share_ something with you.”

“Really? And what might that be?”

“It’s a secret.”

Hermione frowned. “Why tease me with something like that only to _not_ tell me, as it’s a secret?”

“No, what I meant is that the thing I’m going to _share_ is a secret,” Harry clarified. “You cant tell anyone about it.”

“Oh, okay,” Hermione replied, a mix of dubious and curious. “What is it?”

“This.”

Harry reached into his robes and took out the silvery, watery fabric of his father’s special cloak. Hermione looked at it in deep fascination.

“What is that?” she whispered. “I’ve never seen material like that before.”

“It’s an Invisibility Cloak,” Harry grinned. “It belonged to my father. Now _we_ can use it to get back to the castle without anyone seeing us!”

“Wow! Is it _really_!” Hermione hushed excitedly. “Can I try it on?”

“Of course!” Harry beamed, offering it to her. “I thought, you know, maybe you could use it to get to some of those books in the Restricted Section of the library. I saw you looking at them the other day.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Hermione whispered, before daringly changing her mind. “Or _could_ I? It would be so naughty of me, wouldn’t it?”

It would, Harry agreed, but Hermione didn’t seem to mind that, so neither did he. Crookshanks meowed lowly from his position on the picnic mat though, as if admonishing Hermione for her devious scheme.

“Oh Pap, stop fussing!” Hermione blurted without thinking. Then she turned to Harry, who was looking very confused. “How does this work? Do I just put it on like a normal cloak?”

“Yeah, just throw it over your head,” Harry explained, still eyeing the ginger cat warily, wondering why _he_ was staring back so pointedly.

So Hermione followed the instruction, leaving the hood off just so she could see her vanished self.

“Oh my, this is _amazing!”_ Hermione purred. “Look! My entire _body_ has disappeared!”

“Yeah, it’s great for instant weight loss!” Harry quirked.

“Are you trying to say I’m fat?” Hermione teased, cocking a faux-cross smirk onto her lips, which Harry was bizarrely drawn to.

“What? Oh, no, not at all,” Harry blustered. “You aren’t fat at all. I think _I_ might be, though, after all those sweets and cake. I think I’ll throw the rest to the Giant Squid.”

So he did, then set to packing away the picnic mat into the hamper, as Hermione simply twirled around and admired her bodyless form. Then Harry turned to her with a little shudder.

“I … er … I’ll have to come under there now,” Harry muttered, suddenly nervous.

“Yeah, come on in, there’s plenty of room,” Hermione replied brightly. Then she threw the Cloak over Harry’s shoulders, too, and watched as his torso vanished from view. “This is so _weird!_ ”

Harry couldn’t agree more, but as he tucked close to begin the jittery walk back to the castle with Hermione, he had a feeling they might _not_ have been talking about the same thing.


	9. A Slip of the Tongue

“What do you _mean_ ‘I’m not very good!!’” Hermione cried in a shrill voice.

“I mean … _you’re not very good_ ,” Quidditch Captain Oliver Wood repeated dourly. “Sorry, kid. Some people just aren’t cut out for flying. Next!”

Hermione turned her crestfallen expression to Harry, who was still breathing in a big sigh of relief at the decision.

“Harry … what did Oliver mean by that?” Hermione asked in a tiny voice.

“Er … it sounded fairly self-explanatory from where I’m standing,” Harry replied.

Hermione looked shocked, as if she _genuinely_ expected Harry to stand up for her. The fact that he _hadn’t_ was almost fundamentally impossible for her to process. But he was totally unmoved, despite her disappointment. It was this, more than anything, that brought the truth slamming home to her.

“Was … was I really that bad?”

“It wasn’t so much that you were _bad_ ,” Harry began gently. “It was more that you were … well … _wonky.”_

“Wonky?” Hermione frowned.

“Wonky,” Harry repeated.

“What do you mean, _wonky_?” Hermione demanded, crossly.

“Well, you know what a straight line is, yeah?” Harry asked.

“Of course I do!”

“Not on a broom you don’t!” Harry informed her, fighting a laugh at Hermione’s hilariously furious frown. “Oh, and another thing … when you fly, it helps if you go high enough so that your tip-toes don’t still touch the grass!”

Harry couldn’t hold the laugh in any longer, but it made Hermione stomp in her frustration.

“I’m not a fan of heights, okay?” Hermione huffed moodily.

“Then why did you try out for _Quidditch_!?” Harry asked incredulously. “Flying high is sort of in the description!”

“Well, _you_ were trying out, so I thought it might be fun if we got onto the team together,” Hermione explained. “You’re really good, by the way. A natural, I’d say.”

“Maybe,” Harry blushed. “But I’ve been going flying at least once a week for about seven months! Was that your first time on a broom?”

“Second, after our flying lesson the other day,” Hermione griped. “I didn’t think I was _that_ awful.”

“You weren’t,” Harry offered, supportively. “You weren’t as bad as Neville or … or Crabbe.”

“But I wasn’t any good, either?”

“Well … _no_ ,” Harry confessed. “You were a bit wild, actually. I was really a bit terrified that you’d fall off and hurt yourself.”

Hermione smiled weakly at that. There was something about Harry being concerned about her that melted her insides every time. It soothed that disappointed throb in her chest, at what she saw as her _letting him down_ by being a poor flier. But if he was actually _pleased_ that she wasn’t putting herself at risk, that was okay too, Hermione supposed.Though she was still rather cross about the whole thing.

“Look, don’t be too down,” Harry quipped lightly. “You had to be a _little_ bit bad at _something_ , didn’t you? I mean, you are like Mary Poppins at everything else.”

“ _Mary Poppins_?” Hermione queried, a bit perplexed by the reference.

“Well, you know … _practically perfect in every way.”_

Harry immediately wished he hadn’t said that. Hermione was giving him such a glowing smile it was making Harry’s cheeks ridiculously warm. So hot, in fact, that he was sure there would be little puddles of melted skin if he looked down at his boots.

“Thank you, Harry,” Hermione whispered in a gossamer-soft tone. “That … that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” Harry mumbled back shyly. Then he grinned cheekily at her. “But you’re still _rubbish_ on a broom!”

“OI! I’m going to get you for that! I’m going to practice and practice until I fly better than _you_!”

“You wish!” Harry laughed. “But if you mange to get three feet off the ground I’ll get you a badge and a certificate!”

“You’re on!”

They left the Quidditch pitch and headed back up towards the castle, still debating how long it would take for Hermione to build up the courage to fly higher than Gryffindor Tower. Suddenly, they were accosted by Neville, who came racing down the castle steps to meet them. He was carrying a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ , which was streaming out haphazardly behind him.

“There you are!” Neville cried. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

“It was the Quidditch trials today,” Harry reminded him, holding up his Nimbus 2000 to reinforce his case.

“Oh, yeah, I forgot,” Neville frowned. “Sorry, Harry. I was going to come down and support you. At least you had Hermione for that, though.”

“Excuse me!” Hermione frowned crossly, rounding on Neville. “I wasn’t _just_ there to support Harry, I’ll have you know.”

“What?” Neville returned in surprise. “Wait … _you_ didn’t try out for the team, did you?”

“And why wouldn’t I?” Hermione demanded, slamming a hand to her hip.

“Well … er,” Neville stuttered, looking desperately to Harry for support, but Harry was concentrating too hard on not laughing at Hermione’s affronted expression again. He rather thought that being less than perfect at this one thing was actually quite good for her. “Um … broom flying just … er … didn’t look _your thing_ during our lesson with Madam Hooch.”

“Didn’t _look my thing_!” Hermione shrieked. “Explain what _that_ means, Neville Longbottom! Right _now!_ ”

Neville mumbled something that sounded like ‘ _mimblewimble_ ’. Harry thought he’d better step in and save Neville before Hermione maimed him.

“Look, lets call a truce,” Harry proposed. “I’m good at flying, Neville is good at plants, Hermione is _the best_ at everything else. Together we cover all the bases, don’t we?”

Hermione went to argue, but it got lost on the way up her throat. She closed her mouth with a little huff, and just stood there in a cross sort of mood, which Harry thought was at least an improvement on her berating poor Neville. In the silence, Harry took the opportunity to change the subject.

“What were you looking for me for, anyway?” Harry asked Neville. “You came hurtling out of the castle. I hoped it was at least to tell me that Snape had fallen down that hole on the Third Floor and broken a leg.”

“Oh, right! And no, it wasn’t _that_ , worse luck,” Neville began. “But it was this … I thought you ought to see it.”

“What is it?” Harry queried, taking the newspaper that Neville thrust at him.

“An article in that _Potter Spotters_ column,” Neville revealed. “I think you should take a look.”

Harry scowled at Neville and jerked the paper back to him. “No thanks, I don’t read that rubbish. They make half of it up, and if I have to see another picture of myself gorging on a biscuit, or reading in the library, or forgetting the password for the Fat Lady, I’m going to lose my mind. Who _wants_ to see that sort of stuff?”

“You’d be surprised,” Hermione sighed grimly.

Harry snapped his head to her angrily. “Go on then, _surprise_ me.”

“Well - and now don’t bite my head off - but all the girls in my dorm flick straight to that page in the glossy magazine when it comes out,” Hermione began. “And I’ve seen others do it, too. I _even_ came across a couple of girls _swapping_ pictures of you in one of the girl’s loos. It seems there’s an illicit trade in images of you going on around here. A _roaring_ trade, I’d say.”

“I hope _you_ didn’t buy any pictures, Hermione,” Neville teased.

“Of course not,” Hermione replied loftily. “Why would I need to? I see Harry every day. Though that has come with a _unique_ offshoot, too.”

“Which is?” Harry hissed. His mood wasn’t improving.

“Well, obviously everyone knows that we are friends,” Hermione went on. “They know I spend a lot of time with you. So … they ask me questions about what you’re like in private, ask me to take better pictures of you. Somebody even asked me to steal some of your clothes once.”

“What!” Harry thundered. “You _wouldn’t_!”

“Of course I wouldn’t, Harry!” Hermione cried. “What kind of girl do you take me for?”

“So what did you tell these people?” Harry demanded. “And who are they?”

“I’m not telling you _that_ ,” Hermione shot him down. “I’m a little bit concerned that you have a lengthy People To Kill list as it is. As for what I said, I told them to shut their mouths about you and to leave you alone, actually.”

Harry went to argue, but a knot of guilt in his throat stymied his words. He turned his eyes down reticently, ashamed of his outburst.

“Oh, well … thanks,” Harry mumbled mutely. “And … sorry.”

“You’re very welcome,” Hermione replied brightly. “And I intend to _keep on_ telling them when they ask again. Which, I’m afraid, they most definitely _will_.”

Harry huffed, but knew there wasn’t very much he could do about any of this. He was very pleased that he had Hermione to defend his honour and his modesty, but he was too worked up to truly appreciate that just now, or to tell her how grateful he was. So he focused on Neville instead.

“I suppose you’d better tell me what this article is saying about me this time, then,” Harry grumbled.

“That’s just the thing, Harry,” Neville hushed. “It isn’t about _you_ … it’s about _your parents_.”

Harry’s mood congealed in an instant. Up to this point his parent's true status had been kept from the general public, as they hadn’t been convinced that their return would be well received by all. They had moved to work for a clandestine area of the Ministry, but their anonymity would be preserved as a natural part of that work. But now … if they’d somehow been exposed …

“Give me that.”

It was Hermione who snatched _The Daily Prophet_ from Neville, as Harry seemed to have forgotten all of his motor skills. Hermione flicked to the page - and Harry’s stunned state meant he missed that she knew _exactly_ where to go - and began scanning the article.

_GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LINKED TO POSSIBLE POTTER SURVIVAL?_

_EXCLUSIVE!!_

_The Daily Prophet has uncovered shocking new evidence in the mystery of the Gringotts break-in, which occurred last month. Whilst SpokesGoblins for the bank refuse to disclose any more details about the item which was targeted, our roving reporters have discovered a stunning new link to the case - and the possible survival of the long-thought dead couple, Lily and James Potter._

_Unnamed sources from St Mungo’s Centre for Magical Creature Wounds claim that a wizard matching the description of James Potter was admitted three nights ago, in the company of a witch said to be his wife, Lily. The injured wizard was said to be horrifically maimed and in need of urgent treatment._

_But a medi-witch on the staff made a positive identification of the witch, Lily Potter. Our exclusive source was a former Hogwarts classmate of Mrs Potter and claims “she’d know those green eyes anywhere.” The Potter’s son, Harry - who famously survived an attack by the Dark Wizard, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named - recently started his education at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but his parent’s survival must now throw doubt on his story, and further fuel the fears that Dark Wizards in service of You-Know-Who were behind the Gringotts attack._

_More on this breaking story - with a full page interview with our source - coming tomorrow!_

Hermione looked firmly at Harry. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly as she fixed him with a confused, almost _accusatory_ look. From the way Harry had gone very pale and concerned, it was clear that there _could_ be validity to the story, which Hermione didn’t understand at all. Harry had been raised by Lyra’s former lover from this world, and Professor McGonagall. His parents were _dead …_ or was there something he wasn’t telling her?

Hermione was confident that Harry was starting to really trust her … but this would be the first proper test.

So she took him firmly by the shoulders and quick-marched him down to the shores of the Lake, but not before throwing Neville a stern look that told him - quite bluntly - that this was a private discussion. Once there, she held open the offending newspaper article and pushed it under Harry's nose. Hermione knew full well she had no right to demand full openness from Harry, considering what _she_ was keeping from _him_ , but she was going to anyway.

“This …” she began briskly. “Can it be _true_? I thought your parents had been killed?”

Harry blinked up at her, apologies crossing his eyes like clouds. It was clear he _wanted_ to tell her something, but wasn’t sure if he _should_. So Hermione took a step closer to him, wrapped a small hand around his forearm, and said in a soft voice, “It’s okay … just me here, no-one else. You’re safe … you can tell me the truth, whatever it is. I promise I will keep your secrets.”

Harry looked around for a final check, then stared at Hermione, daring to trust her so explicitly. He’d been dying to take her into his confidence. He’d even let slip that his Mum had told him about Neville, hoping she’d try and wheedle the confession out of him, knowing he'd be pretty much powerless to resist her overtures. But she didn’t seem to have spotted that. But _this_ … well, it was too blatant to ignore.

Harry took a steadying breath. “Okay … _yes_ , My parents are alive. But you really mustn’t tell anyone. If _this_ leads to the truth coming out,” he fluttered the article at her, “ … well, then I’ll have to deal with it, wont I? But please don’t say anything before then.”

“You know I wont,” Hermione cooed gently. “And I’ll be right here if the real story comes out. I wont run away if reporters some sniffing around, or anything. But will you please tell me the _real_ story first?”

“I will … and maybe you can help me find it all out for myself,” Harry suggested nervously. “Because I don’t know everything about it.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Hermione replied, perplexed.

“Well, until a year ago, I had no idea about magic or Hogwarts or any of it,” Harry confessed. “I lived underground, but I wasn’t hiding with Sirius, like we told the world. I was with my parents. They raised me in a subterranean city of Muggles, they helped them _study and harness_ magic. Some of the things my Mum and Dad did could have landed them in serious trouble with the Ministry of Magic.

“But then, the Muggles started to be interested in _me_. They’d never had someone develop magic among them before, where they could do tests on them. That’s what they wanted to do with me! Cut me up, assess me, _clone me …_ who knows.”

Hermione threw her hands to her mouth to catch her gasp of shock. “They _didn’t?!_ That’s barbaric!”

“My parents thought so too, so they smuggled me out,” Harry explained. “And I went to live with my Godfather and Professor McGonagall. But Sirius came out into the open a few months ago, so we had to clear his name, because everyone thought he’d murdered my parents. Then we invented a cover story, because my parents work as sort of Secret Agents for the Ministry now, spying on the Muggles. It’s all very complicated.

“And I’m really, _really_ sorry I didn’t tell you. I wanted to, but I just couldn’t. If … if you don’t want to be friends with me anymore, I … I’ll understand.”

Harry wrung his hands together anxiously and kicked his shoes against the dirt. He was looking down at his toes, biting his lip in his worry. He’d never felt so _afraid_ of anythingbefore, but the idea that Hermione would probably turn on her heel and walk away from him now was powerful enough to well tears in his eyes. But then, he lifted his head in hope, as Hermione simply scoffed incredulously next to him.

“Harry Potter, you are the friendliest, kindest and funniest person I’ve ever met,” Hermione began chirpily. “Now you’ve just become the most _interesting_ , too! _Not want to be friends!_ Ha! Don’t be silly. You don’t get rid of me that easily!”

“Y-you’re not mad at me?” Harry asked, stunned, a bubble of hope rising in his chest. “This is such a big secret for me to have kept from you.”

“I have secrets of my own, and they are just as big,” Hermione announced. “I cant tell you them yet, because I’m not sure I’m allowed. But I will, I promise. And I wont be mad at you now, if you forgive me _then …_ because you’ll have more than enough reason to not want to be friends with _me,_ when you know my secrets.”

“That will never happen,” Harry rebuffed confidently. “Whatever they are. You could tell me you come from the Moon and I wouldn’t care. You’re my friend, my … my _best_ friend, if you don’t mind being it, obviously.”

“Well you are already _mine_ , so I suppose I cant refuse, can I?” Hermione teased.

Harry just beamed at her. Then he waved the newspaper at her. “I don’t know if any of this is true, but will you come with me to find out? I have to contact my Godfather.”

“Of course,” Hermione agreed stoically. “I just hope Hedwig is feeling fast today.”

“No, that’s not quick enough,” Harry told her. “We need to use something else. We can talk through _fire_ , did you know that?”

“I knew you could travel through it but, no, I didn’t know about the other bit,” Hermione replied. “I’m learning a lot of new things today. This is a good day!”

Harry chuckled at her as she skipped alongside him. She was a funny sort of girl, was Hermione Granger. Such a conundrum, never what Harry expected. That was one of _his_ favourite things about his best friend. That thought made him happy, too. It kept a wonky grin on his face all the way up to Professor McGonagall’s office, where it was transformed into a full-face gurn.

“Sirius!”

“Ah, there he is, my errant Godson!” Sirius barked, wrapping his arms around Harry as he clobbered him with a vice-like hug. “Where in the name of Morgana have you been? I have a search party of Elves out looking for you!”

“Quidditch trials,” Harry explained. He still had his broom in hand as evidence.

Sirius turned and frowned at Minerva, who was sat at her desk. “You made him _try-out_?”

Sirius was so affronted by the notion that Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

“I couldn’t be seen to show favouritism,” Minerva quirked. “Though I did suggest to Oliver Wood that if he didn’t select Harry as Seeker he would be on duty to milk the Thestrals until Christmas. The _male_ Thestrals, you know.”

“To use in an Concealment Potion?” Hermione suggested meekly. “Or an _anti-Concealment_ one, maybe?”

Minerva actually _beamed_ at Hermione, something Harry had _never_ seen her do before. He wasn’t sure the look suited her, no matter how deserving Hermione was of such high praise.

“Excellent deduction! Take ten points for Gryffindor!” Minerva exclaimed.

“But … we’re not in class,” Hermione reminded her, blushing furiously.

“Better make it _twenty_ then,” Sirius quirked. “How did you guess that, my dear? That’s advanced Potion making, that is.”

“Oh, of _course_ ,” Minerva cried. “Sirius … you haven’t met _Hermione Granger_ , have you?”

Sirius looked at Hermione in wide-eyed astonishment. “ _This_ is Hermione Granger? The Brightest Witch of her age, that Albus Dumbledore has ever met? Or however it was he described her. And she’s friends with my Harrykins? Well, well … fancy _that_!”

“Do _not_ call me that!” Harry fumed, as Hermione giggled crazily at his side.

“Will you relent on _Hazza_ , instead?” Sirius teased.

“No, I will _not!_ I’ve learned some useful hexes, you know,” Harry growled. “And I’m not afraid to use them!”

“Old Dumbles is still _arming_ the student body, then,” Sirius quipped amusedly. “Honestly, if he snapped his fingers he would have his own private army, ready and waiting to do his bidding, the sly old codger! But, Miss Granger, I might have to rely on you to keep Harry from losing his temper. You can see how little control he has over it. I don’t want him to do himself a mischief!”

“I’ll do my best to look after him, Sir,” Hermione replied piously, before grinning cheekily at Harry.

“Wonderful, making such good friends already, Harry!” Sirius barked. “Can I assume that Miss Granger, here, was the reason I emptied half my Gringotts Vault into the tills of Honeydukes the other day?”

“It was her birthday,” Harry explained.

“And thank you very much,” Hermione added shyly. “That was very kind of you.”

“Birthday?” Sirius frowned at his Godson. “And Harry only got you _sweets_? That’s not good enough for a friend, Harry.”

“I didn’t _know_ ,” Harry groaned helplessly. “Not till it was almost the day, anyway.”

“Well that just wont do,” Sirius declared decisively. “Miss Granger … we owe you a belated birthday gift. What would you like?”

“Oh no, that’s really not necessary,” Hermione blushed crazily. “And please, the little picnic was more than enough. As I told Harry … making friends with him is the best present he could give me. No gift could beat that.”

Sirius threw an interesting grin at Minerva, but Harry frowned as he couldn’t work out what it meant.

“She broke her telescope, what about getting a new one?” Harry suggested.

“Professor Sinistra fixed that with a spell,” Hermione informed him. “But I don’t need anything, really.”

“What about a years membership to the Flourish and Blotts Lending Library?” Harry thought aloud. “Any book you like, on short-term loan, for a full year? They deliver and everything.”

Hermione went to argue, but the offer caught fire in her mind. She blinked shyly at Harry. “Would … would that be okay? Would you mind? I did see ever so many books I’d like to read from there. Muggle fiction, too. There were some very interesting titles by a lady called Jane Austen. My Mum, Lyra, sent me one for my birthday. It’s called _Pride and Prejudice_ and I’m enjoying it very much.”

“That’s settled then!” Sirius boomed. “A Lending Subscription it is. You will get along splendidly, you two. Harry is weird like that, too, wanting books and library membership when I offer him racing brooms and solid gold Gobstones sets. You’re like kindred spirits! All I will need is your mother’s name, Miss Granger, just to make sure you are checking out suitable age-range titles. What did you say her name was again?”

“Oh, Lyra Belac - oh, I mean _Granger._ Lyra Granger.”

Hermione bit her lip. Hard. How _stupid_ of her! Sirius was looking at her like he’d swallowed a watermelon … sideways. He was casting his eyes around crazily, as if trying to _spot_ something on her … or _with_ her. Harry was very confused, and Hermione looked _everywhere_ but at Sirius. What was going on?

Then Harry remembered why he was here in the first place.

“Oh! My Dad! I saw it in the paper!” Harry cried suddenly. “Is he alright?”

“First of all, yes, he’s perfectly fine,” Sirius reassured him. “He and your mother are recovering at the flat. I … _assume_ you’ve told Miss Granger, here, the truth? Don’t let me find out you’re keeping this from your friend.”

“No, she knows,” Harry replied quickly. “What happened to my Dad?”

“I was just telling Minerva that when you barged in,” Sirius quirked. “He and your Mum were … er … checking on that _item_ that we stored in Gringotts last year.”

“The one Hagrid took on the day of the break-in?” Harry pressed.

“The same,” Sirius nodded. “Hagrid was guarding it for Dumbledore and … er, well … asked your Mum and Dad to take the _other_ _guard_ some food.” Then Sirius turned to Minerva and said lowly, “And how are you supposed to keep your eyes on all three heads at once?”

Then Minerva turned to Harry. “As your parents are at the flat in London, you may go and see them, just to confirm that they are alright. Just for an hour, though.”

“Really!” Harry beamed. “Can Hermione come, too? If … if she wants to, of course. I’m sure my parents would like to meet my first ever friend.”

Hermione was much too embarrassed, about Harry _wanting_ to make such an earth-shattering introduction so soon into their acquaintance, to say anything. But Minerva and Sirius were both grinning knowingly, though Harry didn’t know at what.

“Very well,” Minerva allowed. “Sirius - you have one hour with them. Then they have to be back for dinner.”

Harry hurried forwards towards the fire. He had a lot to do. He had to introduce Hermione to his parents, then see if his Dad was as _okay_ as Sirius insisted, and _then_ try to worm the information from them about that grubby package. Oh, and prove to Hermione that Hagrid’s giant dog was real and guarding this mysterious item.


	10. The Flamellian Ruby

Harry raced away and vanished into his mother’s embrace while Hermione was still dusting Floo Powder from her robes. She decided, there and then, that this was _far_ too messy a way to travel for her liking. It was positively _heathen_. She crossly expected to be picking little green specks from her bushy tresses for the next couple of weeks.

But she had more pressing concerns than her looks right now. For Sirius had gently steered her into the curved kitchen, under the pretence of making tea while the Potters enjoyed a family reunion. But he had a blatant ulterior motive, and he hissed it out, just as the kettle was hissing the boiling water as cover.

“So … where is he?” Sirius demanded lowly.

Hermione swallowed, hard and nervous as she turned to look at him. “I don’t know who you mean.”

“Yes you do,” Sirius insisted. “Your _d_ _æ_ _mon_ … where is he? And where’s Lyra?”

“Please, Mr Black … I can explain ...”

“Yes you damned well can … and you _will_ ,” Sirius growled. “But perhaps not here. There is _one_ thing you’re going to tell me though.”

Then he faced Hermione straight up, towered over her imposingly so that she bumped her back against the countertop. His expression was _blacker_ than his family name.

“Tell me, right now … are you here to _hurt Harry?_ ”

Hermione was terribly frightened for about three seconds. But then she relaxed at the question.

“ _Hurt_ him! Oh no, you’ve got that all wrong!” Hermione whispered back animatedly. “I came here to meet him, to help him, to - well … that’s why I’m here, anyway. I only have Harry’s best interests at heart, I swear it to you!”

“I am very glad to hear it,” Sirius replied, easing a little but still looking wary. “And your dæmon?”

“We can Separate,” Hermione disclosed. “But he is at Hogwarts with me.”

“Just like Lyra,” Sirius nodded, remembering. “And where is _she_?”

“I don’t know, exactly,” Hermione confessed. “We took a house in Oxford, but I don’t know if she’s there now. It was like being _at home_ , if you know what I mean. But she’s off doing the same thing I am - trying to help Harry, wherever she is. We all are.”

“We?”

“There’s my … my _father_ , Malcolm, too,” Hermione began, then she stopped and took a deep sigh. “Oh well, I suppose you know that I’ve not been entirely truthful so far. So I’ll start again. Mal _isn’t_ my father, we are just pretending while we are in this world. Lyra, too.”

“What … so she _isn’t_ your mother?” Sirius hushed, odd relief in his voice.

“No, but we have to _say_ she is,” Hermione clarified. “It prevents awkward questions, you know.”

“I do, I do,” Sirius nodded. “Thank Merlin for _that_ … for a moment there, I thought you might be _mine!_ ”

“How could I … _oh!”_ Hermione whispered, then she broke out into a little giggle. “You and Lyra were _intimate_ , weren’t you?”

“Within a few days of meeting!” Sirius smirked. “Phew! That’s a weight off. You’ve probably noticed with Harry that my parenting skills are a little _wayward_! I didn’t want to ruin _two_ children in one lifetime!”

“I wouldn’t agree with that at all,” Hermione frowned. “I’ve not known Harry a month and I already know that he’s the best thing to ever happen to me. You must have had a hand in that, Mr Black.”

“You will call me _Sirius_ , or I will get cross with you for lying to Harry!” Sirius warned with a grin.

Hermione smiled shyly back. “Okay, I’ll try. You and Lyra are the same like that. She wont let me be formal, either.”

“The Lyra Belacqua that I knew had very little when it came to _propriety_!” Sirius laughed lowly. “It was what attracted me to her in the first place. I’m glad to see she hasn’t mellowed. I like my women a bit on the feisty side.”

“I think you should know, she threatens to kill you, or cut bits off of you, at least once every couple of days,” Hermione informed him. “And I’m not _entirely_ sure she’s being figurative! I think you should have waited until you were back in this world before taking another lover!”

Sirius chuckled deeply again. “Thank you for warning me! Now, this _Malcolm_ you mentioned … would he happen to be Malcolm Polstead?”

Hermione blinked in her surprise. “Y-yes? How do you know that?”

“Hmm. I think that there is more to this situation than we all realise,” Sirius mused. “You see, Malcolm Polstead has _met_ with Lily … Harry’s _mother,_ you know. He said he was travelling with a young girl who shares a very special destiny with Harry. If that’s anyone but _you_ I wont just eat my _hat_ , I’ll gobble down my entire wardrobe!”

Hermione was frozen in her shock. Mal had _met_ with Lily … and didn’t _tell_ her? More importantly, what did he tell _Lily_? Hermione shivered as a bout of nerves covered her. Clearly, Sirius hadn’t lost any of his extra-sensory skills, that would have come with his having a dæmon, for he stepped forward and placed a comforting hand on Hermione’s shoulder.

“Dont fret, Hermione,” Sirius soothed. “Lily is _very_ keen to meet you. I don’t know what it is she knows about you, but she’s talked of little _else_ but finding you for weeks. She will be _stunned_ when she finds out who you are!”

Hermione wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but she quickly began fussing with her hair, lest she had missed flecks of that bothersome Floo Powder, and now looked like some glittered-up floozy-witch.

That was _not_ the impression she wanted to give to Harry’s Mum at their first introduction.

By this time, Harry had noticed that Hermione has been missing for at least five minutes. So he scurried to the kitchen to investigate her disappearance.

“What _are_ you doing?” Harry enquired. “You could _grow_ tea leaves faster than you two are making a cup! What are you talking about?”

Hermione threw a pleading look at Sirius, who agreed on continuing the ruse for now.

“Just getting acquainted,” Sirius replied breezily. “I wanted to know a little about the _reason_ that you spent _three pages_ of a letter justifying to me why I should practically become a silent partner in the magical world’s biggest sweet-shop chain!”

Harry blushed as Hermione quizzically mouthed ‘ _three pages?’_ at him, which - they both knew - was longer than his average homework effort. He found he couldn’t look her in the eye just then. So he busied himself taking the tea tray to his parents and pouring his mother a cup.

“We have company?” James quirked, as Harry forgot to pour _him_ a tea. “And who is this?”

Then several odd things happened. First, Harry saw Sirius fix Lily with a potent, charged stare. It was _so_ charged, in fact, that Harry felt his hair stand on end as they locked eyes over his head, almost as if a _spell_ had passed between them, which Harry was puzzled by. He’d never heard of magic like that at Hogwarts. But then, something even stranger happened.

His mother _gasped aloud …_ almost as if she’d been told a shocking secret.

Harry frowned at her. “What’s the matter?”

“What? Oh, oh …” Lily flustered, trying to recover herself. “It was the tea, that’s all. It was very hot.”

“Oh, sorry,” Harry apologised. “I do that all the time. Auntie Min bought me a salve for it. It’s in the bathroom, I’ll just go and fetch it.”

As soon as Harry had sprinted out of sight down the arcing passage around the kitchen, Lily beckoned Hermione forward imploringly.

“You? You’re _Hermione_?” Lily whispered. It was as much a surprised statement as it was a question. 

“What!” James hushed lowly. “Not _the_ Hermione?”

Hermione frowned a little. “There’s a ‘ _the’_ Hermione? What does that mean?”

James smirked at her. “Please don’t be affronted. We were told about a very special girl called Hermione, who would come to this world … and that is destined to become … well, _very close_ with our Harry. And that’s you, then?”

Hermione was suddenly very bashful and could only nod by way of reply.

“And you’re friends with him already?” Lily asked softly. Hermione nodded again. “Well, at least that means our boy has made a good impression on you!”

“Oh, he has!” Hermione chirruped. “The _best_. He’s so lovely, Mrs Potter, he really is.”

“Best keep that to yourself,” Lily quirked. “For if Harry is anything like his _father,_ his ego is likely to grow at the slightest thing!”

“Hey … I’m sitting _right_ here!” James protested good-naturedly.

“How could we forget?” Lily quipped with a teasing wink.“Your head is so dense it has its own gravitational pull! We're all lucky not to be orbiting it!”

“How are you anyway, Mr Potter?” Hermione asked politely, as James made a face at his wife. “I hear you were injured?”

James and Lily exchanged an approving grin, which only deepened when Sirius added, “And if you ask Hermione _very_ nicely, she might be able to suggest a potion or two to help with your recovery. She knew about the uses of … er … Thestral _baby-making juice_! Who knows what else might be stored in that impressive brain of hers!”

Lily looked at him pityingly, then she turned to Hermione. “Ignore Sirius and his childish inability to call a spade a spade. But that is very advanced Potion knowledge. How did you find that out?”

“Well, Harry recommended I read _Hogwarts: A History_ ,” Hermione began. “And that’s where I found out about the Thestrals pulling the carriages, and how they can only be seen by people who have witnessed death. But I was curious about _how_ that worked, because they obviously were not _actually_ invisible, so I looked it up. That’s where I found out that they secrete a pheromone which causes their camouflage. It didn’t explain how it stopped working, though.”

“Once a person witnesses death, it produces a neuro-chemical in the brain as a coping mechanism,” Lily explained. “This nullifies the effect of the Thestral pheromone, allowing a person to see them. Thestral fluids can be adapted to affect the brain in a similar way for other things, manipulated to make whatever the brewer wants to conceal essentially _unseeable_. It is used extensively by St Mungo’s in mental spell trauma treatment.”

“Like on Frank and Alice Longbottom?” Hermione asked cautiously.

Lily’s face lost all its colour at once. “Frank and Alice … you _know_ them?”

“I spent six months with them in _my world_ , preparing me to come here,” Hermione replied. “I’m sure they’d be thrilled for me to tell you that they are totally fine there. They didn’t say you were friends, Harry told me that. But they did ask me to keep an eye on Neville, their son.”

“A proper little guardian angel, aren’t you?” James quipped with a smile.

“Who’s an angel?” Harry asked as he came skidding back into the room with the burn salve. “Or is Hermione boasting about her singing voice again?!”

“You _sing?_ ” Lily cried, delightedly.

“A bit,” Hermione mumbled. “But I’m better at playing the Celtic Flute. My mother is _Cymraeg_ , you see, and she plays so beautifully, so I tried to learn. I’m not as good as her, but I practice a lot.”

“You didn’t tell me _that!_ ” Harry whispered. “You’ll have to do a little performance for me.”

“I will play, but _please_ don’t make me sing,” Hermione begged.

“If you like,” Harry agreed. “But don’t think I wont hold you to that promise!”

“Harry, where are your manners?” Lily admonished. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“But … I thought by now you’d have already met,” Harry frowned, confused.

“We _have_ ,” Lily replied. “But it is still polite to introduce us _properly_ to your friends.”

“Oh, right … sorry,” Harry mumbled guiltily. “Mum, Dad - this is Hermione Granger. We met on the train on the way to school and she’s already my best friend. And she’s the best in our year, and knows a little bit about everything, and we both like pumpkin pie, and she prefers liquorice wands to Bertie Bott’s Beans - and so do I, after Sirius gave me an ingrowing toenail-flavoured one - and she is four foot one-and-three-quarters, and she doesn’t like heights, and because of that she’s not very happy on a broomstick, which is pretty much the _only_ thing she’s not good at that I’ve found so far.”

Harry said all this very fast and without drawing breath. He looked at Hermione to see if he’d forgotten anything important. He thought he should have added that she blushed a lot, like now, because her cheeks were so red she looked like she was on fire. Harry felt immediately bad for embarrassing her, as she looked so meek and awkward now.

But the idea of fire and burning jolted his memory, so he hurried forward without looking at Hermione and passed the salve in his hand to his mother, who was just beaming at him.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered, though he wasn’t _quite_ sure who he was addressing.

James, sensing his son’s adorably cute awkwardness, turned attention onto himself.

“So, your mother gets a salve for her burn and what do I get?” James cried in fake chiding. “Absolutely _nothing_. At least your … er … _friend_ had the good politeness to ask how I was. My own son … not even caring about his old Dad, eh? What is the world coming to? I always knew I’d have preferred a daughter.”

“Stop teasing, or I might change my mind about _making one_ with you,” Lily told James firmly.

Harry snapped his eyes to her. “ _What!_? You’re doing _what!_?”

“The house is too quiet without you blustering around,” James explained. “So we’ve been thinking about expanding the family, now we’re sort of back in the world and everything.”

That was too much to process just now, so Harry focused on the immediate situation.

“About that … you were in the paper, you were _seen!_ ” Harry hissed. “What happened? And what’s _going_ to happen now?”

“One thing at a time,” James returned, holding up a hand to stop another Harry-rant. “Lets start with what happened.”

“You were attacked by Fluffy,” Harry blurted. “Sirius said.”

“I did _not_!” Sirius protested, spilling tea from his mouth in his shock. “When did I say that?”

“I heard you telling Auntie Min, about watching ‘ _all three heads at once’_ ,” Harry explained. “What else could it be but that monstrous dog of Hagrid’s?”

“Paddy! _Really?_ ” James chortled. “Some Unspeakable _you’d_ make!”

“Hark who’s talking!” Sirius volleyed back. “Spotted, just like Harry said! Didn’t they teach you Concealment on your first day? Even Hermione, here, knows a Potion for _that_.”

“Thanks, but given what’s _in it_ , I’ll pass!” James rebuffed, going a little green in the gills at the idea.

“Is it _real,_ then?” Hermione queried. “The three-headed dog?”

“Oh yes, very real,” James moaned lowly. “And _very_ three-headed.”

Harry grinned widely at Hermione in a very _‘I told you so’_ type of way. She simply wrinkled her little nose back at him. Harry hadn’t noticed _how_ little Hermione’s nose was before. How peculiar.

“Three heads … and not one of them of liked James!” Lily laughed, continuing on.

“On the contrary,” James countered silkily. “I think they liked me very much, actually.”

“Finding you _tasty_ isn’t quite the same as _liking_ you, honey,” Lily pointed out to him gently.

“Well … it worked for _you!”_ James quirked lightly. Lily just shook her head and sighed at him. “Anyway, we went to feed it … and Fluffy was _very_ hungry.”

“What do you feed a giant dog?” Harry wondered aloud.

“A lot!” Sirius chuckled. “And it quite liked _Idiot Wizard_ as a main course by the sounds of it!”

Hermione giggled cautiously and Harry just smirked at his father. “But what was Fluffy guarding? Sirius said it was the grubby package he took to Gringotts for Dumbledore.”

Lily hissed dangerously at Sirius, who cowered back as though stung. “Is there anything you _didn’t_ tell him?”

“I … well … I, er …” Sirius stumbled, rubbing the back of his neck guiltily.

“Yes,” Harry stepped in at Sirius’ defence. “He _didn’t_ tell me what Fluffy is guarding. But I expect one of _you_ to. If you’re going to practically get yourselves _eaten,_ I think you should at least tell me what it’s for.”

“That’s fair,” James agreed.

“James!” Lily spat, warningly.

“It’s _fair_ , Lily,” James returned firmly, standing his ground. “We kept enough secrets from our son, we promised we wouldn’t do that to him again.”

Lily went to argue, but forgot how to. So she simply huffed and permitted James to continue.

“Fluffy is guarding something called _The Flammelian Ruby_ ,” James went on. “It belongs to an old friend of Dumbledore’s.”

“A _very_ old friend,” Sirius added with a cryptic smirk.

“Yes, well,” James continued. “Anyway, he asked Dumbledore to look after it. And what better guard than a half-giant and his _full-giant_ Cereberian Short-tail.”

“Is the ruby in some sort of danger, then?” asked Hermione.

“Well sleuthed,” James nodded approvingly. “Someone tried to steal it from Gringotts, as you know, but there was another attempt on it at the new safe location. Hagrid chased the would-be thief away. But they’ll be back.”

“If we’re going to tell you _everything_ ,” Lily took over, somewhat disapprovingly. “Then you should know that this has something to do with Voldemort … and Hogwarts.”

“Hogwarts?” Harry asked, a cold shiver crossing his skin. “How can it have anything to do with there?”

“Because the thief naturally assumed Dumbledore would keep the Ruby close to himself,” James explained. “I understand there’s a really big hole on the Third Floor right at this moment? Well, the thief was under the impression that Dumbledore had found the legendary Chamber of Secrets, deep beneath the school.”

“There’s a _Chamber of Secrets_!” Harry whispered excitedly. He turned to Hermione. “It didn’t mention _that_ in _Hogwarts: A History_ , did it?”

“Well, it’s not likely to, is it?” Hermione pointed out reasonably. “As it’s a _secret_.”

“Oh … yeah. I didn’t think of that.”

“Good job you have someone to think _for_ you then,” Lily teased with a little smile at Hermione, turning her cheeks pink again.

“So, Dumbledore found this Chamber, then?” Harry pressed on. "And he's hidden this Ruby thing inside it?"

“No, it’s a myth, Harry,” James explained. “But the thief thought he might have. So he blasted a hole in the floor to try and get into the network of caves beneath Hogwarts.”

“Ah, so that’s why they cant close the hole?” Hermione cried in understanding. “Because it’s _dark magic!”_

Lily and James grinned at each other.

“You really are _exceptionally_ bright, aren’t you?” Lily observed. “Yes, that’s why. But the thief has searched that place, so Dumbledore thinks it might be rather clever of him to move the Ruby to somewhere in those caves _now_ , and Fluffy, too. I’m not sure I agree, but … I'm sure he'll put up other protections, too. The Ruby is a _very_ powerful magical artefact, after all. Just - for Merlin’s sake - avoid the Third Floor corridor, wont you?! I don’t want you ending up like Harry’s silly father over there.”

“It was just a few scratches,” James dismissed off-handedly.

“That went _neon-green_ with infection!” Lily cried passionately. “Promise me you wont go _looking_ for the Ruby. Promise me … _both_ of you.”

“We promise,” Harry and Hermione chorused faithfully.

“James, Lil’,” Sirius announced as the conversation paused. “I’d better be getting the kids back to Hogwarts. Minerva will roast me if I’m so much as a minute late.”

“Wait!” Harry cried. “What’s going to happen to you? About the story in the paper?”

“Will you let us deal with that?” Lily insisted wearily. “I'm a big girl, you know, and your dad ... well, he's James Potter. Whatever that means! Hermione, I'm afraid you might have to find a way to keep Harry distracted. Otherwise he’ll go running off and fighting all our battles for us.”

“I’m sure I can think of something,” Hermione grinned cutely at Harry, who felt his insides do insane flips at the fire in Hermione’s eyes. Now what in the name of all that was magical was _that_ look supposed to mean?

Harry had little time to dwell on that, though. For soon his mother was crushing his ribs with one hug, his father ruffling his hair a moment later, then Sirius was whizzing them back through the fire and back to Hogwarts … where Harry had a _lot_ to think about.


	11. The Troll Incident

That morning, they were studying Magical Literature and Language.

The teacher, Professor Ayre, was a very serious and stuffy academian, and his particular way of torturing his students was by making them use tricky words or phrases in their prose. For this lesson, he picked on Ron Weasley first.

“Mr Weasley - please give me a sentence with the word _‘centimetre’_ in it.”

Ron looked around wildly for support. But, as he was yet to make a single friend, no-one caught his eye. Downhearted, Ron took a breath and closed his eyes.

“Um, okay,” he mumbled. “How about - ‘ _my Aunt Muriel was coming in from the country … and I was sent-to-meet-her.”_

Harry laughed first, he couldn’t help it. Hermione joined him a half-second later, and they quickly became so uncontrollably giggly that Hermione had to grab Harry to try and diffuse some of her mirth. Harry caught Ron’s eye through a gap in Hermione’s hair, and Ron’s scowl soon transformed into a coy little grin as he realised his mistake and started to chuckle himself. Very soon the entire _class_ was positively _howling_ with laughter, and Professor Ayre lost any chance he ever had at controlling them. Dean Thomas was thumping Ron on the back, as Ron tried to dry his eyes, and Neville even opened a window to try and get a fresh breath.

All in all, it was a great way to start a school day.

That evening, the first-years had decided - en masse - to take over that bit of the Gryffindor Common Room in front of the fireplace. Harry had made the first move after he returned from Quidditch practice, commandeering one side of the battered old couch facing the hearth. As he hoped, Hermione quickly flopped down next to him, before cheekily kicking off her shoes and planting her feet firmly into Harry’s lap.

She grinned at him and Harry didn’t complain. After all, her feet made a handy rest for the sheets of parchment Oliver Wood had given him, containing all the Chasers moves and strategies from his personal play-book. Quite why he wanted Harry to memorise them was baffling, as he was a Seeker and not a Chaser, but Wood was very insistent, and Harry didn’t want to add to his already high stress levels about the upcoming match.

What surprised Harry more was that when the other first-years piled in to claim the best spots left near the fire, not one of them commented on Hermione’s feet being in Harry’s lap, nor the fact that the two of them were taking up all _three_ cushions on the couch. It was as if it were the most natural thing in the world, which was odd.

Harry thought it was really very comical the way everyone positioned themselves, with all the girls sat on one side of the fireplace and the boys on the other, with Harry and Hermione in the middle of them. He thought they were being rather silly about the whole thing. After all, being close to Hermione was _easily_ Harry’s favourite place to be, and _she_ was a girl, wasn’t she? He really didn't understand what everyone was making such a big fuss about.

The only one who _wasn’t_ there was Ron, who had been baited by Draco Malfoy during Potions earlier in the week, leading to them arranging to have a midnight duel. Ron stupidly went, not realising that it was a trap, and was caught by Professor Quirrell trying to get through the locked door to the off-limits third floor corridor. His punishment was three nights of detention with Hagrid, and Harry idly wondered if the Gamekeeper was getting Ron to collect some of the giant spider’s webs, to add to the Halloween decorations going up in the Great Hall.

Ron would _never_ misbehave again if _that_ was the sort of punishment he could expect.

The Halloween celebrations were the talk of the school. An elaborate feast had been planned, to be followed by a disco in the evening. The students were expected to attend in fancy dress, and costume ideas dominated the chatter around the halls. Harry thought it was quite nice to have everyone talking about something other than _him,_ and for once he could join in with the conversations without shouting at people for annoying him.

“My wings came this morning,” Lavender Brown was telling them all. “But they’re not as glittery as they looked in the catalogue, so I’m going to have to see if I can add my own to make them better.”

“What are you going as?” Hermione asked.

“A pixie,” Lavender replied. “I was going to go as Tinkerbell, but then I had a nightmare about Goyle going as Peter Pan and trying to get a kiss out of me all night. I had to have two showers when I woke up! Yuk!”

“What are you going as, Hermione?” Fay Dunbar queried, curling her hair around her wand.

“I’m going as Mz Dracula, and Harry’s going as Frankenstein’s Monster,” Hermione replied chirpily. Quite why she felt the need to give _his_ costume too was beyond Harry, but he reasoned that maybe this was just how girls talked to each other.

“Shouldn’t you be going as - I don’t know - Morticia and Gomez, or something?” Parvati Patil asked, looking surprised.

“Um … why?” Hermione asked.

“Well … because you’re, _you know_ ,” Lavender answered for Parvati.

“I don’t know,” Hermione frowned. “I’m what?”

“I didn’t mean _you,_ I meant _you and Harry_ ,” Lavender clarified.

“What about us?”

“Well, Harry _is_ your boyfriend, isn't he, so I assumed you’d have costumes that went together,” Lavender replied.

“I am?” Harry asked, perplexed. It was news to him, and it made him a bit jittery all of a sudden. Had he missed something? 

“No, you’re not,” Hermione reassured him, cottoning on to his anxious expression. Harry couldn’t help but feel a tinge of disappointment. It had been a nice relationship ... for all of the five seconds it had lasted.

“What do you mean _he’s not_?” Parvati cried. “You’re together _all the time!”_

“Which means nothing, other than that we are _friends_ ,” Hermione replied sniffily. “Cant a boy and a girl be friends without anything else going on?”

“No!” Parvati and Lavender chorused together.

"At least not like you two are," Fay added.

“Of course they can, don’t be absurd,” Hermione returned loftily, but Harry noticed she was determinedly not looking at him.

Then he felt a twinge of something worrying in his chest. Did Hermione not _like_ the idea of Harry being her boyfriend? And why did it suddenly matter? In any case, Harry had no idea how he’d _be_ a boyfriend, to _anyone_. Or if he’d even be any good as one. What was the difference between being a friend and a boyfriend anyway? What did you do differently? Perhaps it was best that he wasn’t one, because it sounded very complicated. And he was pretty sure he was a good friend to Hermione, and she might not think so if he was her boyfriend, and if that happened she might not want to see him anymore.

And the idea of Hermione not wanting to be around him almost _hurt_ , so he didn’t want to think about that too much.

“I always thought Frankenstein was the name of the monster?” Dean Thomas commented, dragging the conversation back around to Halloween. He was peeling the backs from stickers to put in an album of his favourite football team, West Ham. Seamus Finnigan was sat next to him, prodding the little footballers with his wand, trying to get them to move.

“It’s a common mistake,” Hermione replied haughtily. “Usually by people who are too lazy to read the book.”

“Ron Weasley told me about it,” Dean replied, which Harry thought sounded about right. “I’ll have to tell him he’s wrong.”

“Can I?” Seamus begged. “You told him he was wrong about the way he was pronouncing _leviosa_ in Charms the other day.His face when Flitwick told him he was saying it wrong … it was a picture! It’s my turn to point out his latest flaw.”

“That’s not very nice,” Harry observed. “Funny, and necessary, but not very nice.”

“He brings it on himself,” Neville piped up. “It’s just the way he is about everything. Like he knows it all. It’s not _our_ fault that he actually knows practically _nothing_ , including how to talk to people _._ He must have noticed that he’s got no friends.”

“What’s he going to the disco as?” asked Fay, whose hair was now a mass of little ringlets.

“Some sort of ghost, I think,” Dean replied. “I saw him messing around with some old bedsheets the other day, throwing them over his head and stuff. Either that, or he’s going as a member of the Klan, in which case I’ll be following Harry’s example and threatening to push him off the parapet of the Astronomy Tower!”

“Excuse me, I only threatened to push him out of a window!” Harry cried in mock admonishment. “I didn’t give him a specific location. I think I’d quite like it to be a surprise when it happens.”

“So you _did_ threaten him with that?” asked Lavender. “I heard him moaning about it to his brother, but I thought he was just exaggerating."

“No, that one was true,” Harry admitted with a coy grin. He hadn't noticed he was doing it, but he was idly picking lint bobbles from the end of Hermione's pink socks.

“You actually said you’d push him out of a window?” Parvati jumped in. “Did he, Nev?”

“Yeah,” Neville nodded with a grin at Harry. “And all for insulting his _girl-who’s-a-friend but not a_ _girlfriend_!”

Parvati and Lavender simply swooned at each other, then at Hermione, who had blushed a deeper shade of scarlet than Harry’s Quidditch robe, which her besocked feet were still cosily tangled up in on his lap.

On Halloween morning the castle was filled with the delicious smell of baking pumpkin wafting though the corridors. Harry and Hermione spent breakfast speculating about who actually did the cooking in Hogwarts, for neither of them could ever remember seeing a chef anywhere, while they watched Hagrid roll in twelve giant pumpkins for the party that night. Hermione had chosen to only have one piece of fruit for breakfast - as she wanted to make sure she would still fit into her dress later - but that didn’t stop her pinching mushrooms from Harry’s plate whenever she thought he wasn’t looking.

“I’m still not sure if we should use a spell or an adhesive for your nuts, Harry,” Hermione pondered as Harry buttered himself another muffin. “We don’t want them falling off.”

Harry dribbled out half of his mouthful of orange juice. “Excuse me! W-what?”

“Your nuts, Harry. We don’t want them falling off.”

“That’s not something any boy wants!” Neville quirked as he joined them at the table. “Something you want to tell us, Harry!?”

“I meant the ones for his costume!” Hermione frowned sniffily, though there was a giggle hiding behind her eyes. “They’re in my bag upstairs. We were just talking about how to keep them on.”

“Oh, _right!”_ Harry cried in relief.

“I wouldn’t go around broadcasting that Harry’s nuts are in your handbag, Hermione,” Neville quipped. “It wont do anything to stop these rumours that you both love so much!”

“Ho ho,” Hermione replied in a bored drawl. “So, how’s _your_ costume coming along?”

“Pretty good,” Neville returned, pulling the rack of toast towards himself. Hermione watched him eat with deep jealousy. “I was up all night sewing a big, gold 'G' and 'L' onto the robes I dyed. They came out puce rather than lilac, but it’s close enough.”

“Who are you going as again?”

“Gilderoy Lockhart, in the costume he wore on the cover of _Travelling with Trolls_ ,” Neville reminded them. “I’ve even got a cardboard scythe, like the one he carried with him. He’s a hero of mine. I wish I was just _half_ as brave as him.”

“He certainly has had a lot of adventures,” Harry agreed. “But he’s way too smug for me. He has the kind of face I’d never get tired of punching.”

“Harry! That’s an awful thing to say!” Hermione told him off crossly.

“You obviously haven’t see him, then!” Harry laughed back. “Or you would totally agree with me.”

“I would never advocate violence just because of how someone looks,” Hermione retorted.

“Wait a minute," Neville quirked at her. "Didn’t I hear you say that you hoped Sally-Anne Perks would fall and break her _pretty little head_ when she was playing Broom-Tag against Harry during Flying on Tuesday morning?”

“That was different,” Hermione insisted placidly, her cheeks colouring a little.

“How?” Neville asked incredulously.

“I don’t like her, that’s how,” Hermione replied with a dismissive scowl, ending the conversation at a stroke.

That night, the Great Hall was resplendent in its decorations, with bursts of orange and black and purple leaping out from all parts of the walls and cobweb-covered corners of the ceiling. The huge pumpkins were so massive that they were big enough for two students to sit in comfortably, so they too had been decorated and people were having their photos taken inside in their costumes. Hermione pulled Harry to the nearest one almost as soon as they re-entered the Hall after the feast, and she insisted on having at least four photos taken, so they could both have one each, as well as sending one home to their respective sets of parents.

Then the disco started. For a while no-one was dancing, until the Weasley twins went and put some very loud _Weird Sisters_ songs on the magical jukebox, and _Harry_ made the mistake of telling Hermione how much he liked the band. The next thing he knew was that she had grabbed his hand and was dragging him to the dancefloor, where they started doing a sort of manic, but nervous, jig together. They started a trend, though, and soon the Weasley twins were jumping crazily all around them, followed by about half the student population piling in to join the melee.

The pumpkin juice was flowing with the mirth - flowing right _through_ Hermione it would seem - as she had just left Harry for the third time to use the loo, when Ron Weasley suddenly came skidding into the Hall. He was flushed and out of breath, but looked very pleased with himself as he came to a screeching halt near the teacher’s table.

“There’s a t-troll,” Ron panted. “I don’t know how it got in.”

“A troll!” Hagrid cried, which was unfortunate as his voice carried all across the Hall and triggered immediate mass panic, which was only brought under control when Professor Dumbledore fired three enormous crackers from his wand and called for order. Then he turned to Ron.

“There is a troll _inside_ the school?” he asked calmly. Ron nodded the affirmative. Dumbledore flicked a loaded look at Professor Snape, who immediately stood up and swept away with some purpose. Dumbledore waited until he was gone before addressing Ron again. “And where did you see this troll?”

“Girls toilet, on the second floor,” Ron heaved out. “It’s okay though, I saved the day!”

“ _You_ did?” asked Professor McGonagall suspiciously. “What did you do?”

“I locked it in,” Ron beamed proudly.

“And did you check inside first?” asked Professor McGonagall. “You do realise that the second floor toilet is the one the girls have had to use this evening? Ever since one of your idiotic brothers thought it would be a fine idea to cast a spell on the toilet water down here, to magically magnify the sounds being made by _whatever_ was falling into it. Needless to say, the girls of Hogwarts are not keen on having their private business boomed out to the rest of the castle.”

“Er .. no, I … I didn’t check,” Ron muttered guiltily.

Then the bottom felt like it had fallen from Harry’s stomach. He could _feel_ the colour leave his face, and Professor McGonagall saw it too.

“Harry?” she queried sternly. “What is it?”

“Hermione! She just went to use the loo … and she doesn’t _know_!”

And he was running before he knew his legs had started moving. Somewhere in the background calls for him to stop burst out, but each one just sailed over his head. Harry wrenched open the doors to the Hall, his heart pounding as fast as his racing breaths. He took the stairs two at a time, sprinting down the second floor corridor towards the unholy stench that could only have been the stagnant skin of the troll.

That’s when he heard it. An almighty crash … followed by a shrill, high-pitched scream of such utter terror that Harry felt something break inside his heart. Hermione shouldn’t be making sounds like that, it was abhorrent and unnatural. There was no better definition of _wrong_ in Harry’s world just then. He dived forwards and grabbed the key, that Ron had still left in the lock, turning it and barging into the room.

And the sight turned him cold. Harry had never really believed in the idea of _losing your mind_ in a moment of fear. It was impossible, an over-the-top reaction. But that was _exactly_ what happened to him. For he saw Hermione, flat against the wall by the sinks, her eyes wide in her fright. The troll, all twelve feet of him, was lumbering towards her, smashing the cubicles with his club as he went. Hermione was literally moments from being smashed herself.

“Harry! Run away!” Hermione shrieked as she finally saw him. “I couldn’t bear to see you get hurt!”

Hermione’s voice jolted Harry back to the moment. In an act that was as brave as it was stupid, he did the only thing that came to mind, racing forward and locking his arms around the troll’s neck. Harry was tiny, no more than an irritant to the giant beast. But one of the costume bolts on his neck had gone right into the troll’s eye when Harry leapt up onto his back.

And that was enough to hurt _anything_.

The troll roared, flailing his fist and swinging his club wildly. Twice, the rough edges scraped against Harry’s body, tearing his costume along his right side and drawing blood from a deep gash. The sight seemed to ignite something in Hermione, for she jumped up and drew her wand, just as the troll lifted his club high over his head.

“ _Wingardium Leviosa_!” Hermione cried, brandishing her wand expertly with a swish and a flick.

The club shot out of the troll’s grip, rose high into the air, then came crashing down onto his head with a sickening _crack_. The troll fell backwards to the ground, knocked out cold, and Harry had the good sense to roll away before he was crushed under the weight. But it was pretty much _all_ the sense he had, for his vision was fuzzy and his brain felt _ver_ y floaty. He had lost a _lot_ of blood.

“Harry!” Hermione cried again, racing to his limp form. She was white with anxiety and pawed helplessly at Harry's torn and ragged clothes. “I don’t know what to do! Help! Please, somebody help!”

Never let it be said that help is not given to those who ask for it at Hogwarts. For barely a second after Hermione’s heart-aching plea echoed in the quiet of the lavatory, Professor Dumbledore was there, gently easing her aside and sealing Harry’s wounds with his wand, before lifting him from the floor as if his weight was nothing. But that was the last thing Harry remembered, as he passed out from the pain and blood loss.


	12. Sirius' Tale

The dark shadows crept and lurched in the corners of the room as Harry woke, gasping for breath as if breaking the surface of water a second before drowning. He had been in the throes of a nightmare, one of crashing noises, foul smells, and a sharp, abrasive threat creeping ever closer. It had crippled him, left him unable to render aid. Then he remembered who he'd been dragging his broken body to help in the first place.

“He-mermronie!”

Harry had meant to cry out, but his numb face had slurred his speech like a melting film reel. For a moment he found it mildly amusing, then panic set in. Where was he? Much more importantly, where was Hermione and was she okay? Would he ever be able to speak again? To sing again?

Which would be quite the thing … as he _couldn’t_ sing before! Then someone spoke - from the _end of his bed!_

“You’re awake!” the light male voice squeaked in powerful relief. “Thank Heavens! Hermione will be ever so happy.”

“Wah!”

Harry jumped back up the bed, jumped so hard and fast in his shock that he smashed the back of his head into the steel headrest at the top of the cot. He blinked stars from his swimming vision as he tried to get his bearings. He realised that he must be in the Hospital Wing, as the place had a distinctly medical feel to it. Rows of surgical beds and curtain dividers leered out from the darkness. For a moment, Harry realised the dark reality of what Hogwarts needing a hospital _wing_ likely implied about safety at the school, and that brought his attention slamming back to Hermione and her unknown condition.

And her cat … which had just _spoken_ to him!

“Wah, I don’ un-re-stan’,” Harry tried again, but his sleep-mussed and potioned state still held him in its grip.

“Here kiddo, drink this. It will make you sound less like an Immore Alley drunk on a Friday night!”

“See-rus!” Harry babbled.

Sirius grinned down at him from the gloom. Harry hadn’t even noticed him sitting next to his bed, but he watched now as his Godfather bent over him, uncorked a vial and placed it to his lips. But Sirius paused, and looked sternly at Harry.

“I’ll give you this, but you let _us_ talk,” Sirius began, gesturing between himself and Crookshanks, who had padded up the bed and perched himself like an ancient Egyptian cat-god at Harry’s feet. “Agreed?”

Harry nodded, tilted his head back, then let Sirius tip the potion down his throat. It tasted like almonds, which wasn’t bad.

“Better?” Sirius asked after a minute.

“Let’s see,” Harry tested, working his jaw to test its tautness. “Seems so. I want an explanation … I know I said I’d let you talk, but not before you tell me how Hermione is. First, before you say anything else.”

Sirius grinned at him. “You really like her, don’t you?”

“Yes, I like her a lot,” Harry replied unabashed. “Now tell me how she is.”

“I see you wont be distracted,” Sirius smirked. “Hermione is fine. A little shaken, very worried about _you_ , even _more_ cross at the Weasley boy for his stupidity, but she’ll be right as rain. We finally got her to go to bed about an hour ago, but not before she made Crookshanks swear on his life to stay with you until she returned in the morning.”

Harry turned to look at the fluffy cat. He had Hermione’s firm, stubborn expression behind his whiskers. It cheered Harry and he gave him a look of thanks.

“You can _talk_ ,” Harry blurted out, as much a statement as a question. “I didn’t know that.”

“There is much about me you do not know,” came the solemn reply. “We, Hermione and I, have been holding a great secret from you. Neither of us have wanted to keep you in the dark for so long, but we have been afraid about how you will react. Hermione likes you very much too, in case she hasn’t made that clear enough. She is petrified of doing anything that might alienate her from you.”

“She is my best friend,” Harry agreed, enjoying a cosy bubble of warmth that was spreading across his chest. Then he wrinkled his face in confusion. “The way you are saying ‘ _we’,_ though … it’s very suggestive. Is that part of the secret?”

“It is,” Crookshanks replied. “And after what happened with the troll - where you were so badly hurt - Hermione has decided she can no longer go on without telling you the truth.”

“But the secret is so fundamental to who she is, to who _they_ are, that Hermione is worried that you wont want to be friends with her when you know it,” Sirius took over. “So that’s why we are going to tell you for her. To make you understand that this secret changes _nothing_ about the girl you know, or the relationship you are forming together. It’s so good for you, Harry … _she_ is so good for you. I see that already. Remember that when we tell you this.”

Harry scoffed. “There isn’t _anything_ you could tell me that would make me suddenly dislike Hermione, if that's what you're getting at! Unless it was really evil, and even then I’d just try and turn her to our side. She’s my best friend … and you’re not taking that from me. But how do _you_ know about all this?”

Sirius sighed heavily. “For it ties in to _my_ story. Tonight, Harry, I will finally tell you how I helped end the Great Magical Civil War.”

Harry gasped and sat up in his expectation, hugging his knees into his chest.

“But first, I should tell you the truth about _me_ ,” Crookshanks took over. “For I am not Hermione’s _pet_ … I am not even called Crookshanks. My name is Papageno … and what I _am_ may be difficult for you to understand right away.”

“Okay,” Harry replied, taking in a steadying breath. “I’m ready.”

“It all begins with events at the time of your birth,” Sirius continued, sitting down and crossing one knee over the other. “The Great Magical Civil War was started by a wizard named Tom Riddle, who harboured the darkest ambitions - to seize power by force. He was cruel, he was malicious, but he was also powerful. A gifted orator, he drew like-minded people to him - power-thirsty, disillusioned, radical extreme thinkers.

“Riddle became the self-styled Lord Voldemort, his band of followers named themselves the Death Eaters, and Britain was plunged into war.

“For the longest time, it seemed we would lose. And then, a prophecy was made that predicted the downfall of Lord Voldemort, at the hands of a child born at the end of July that year. Voldemort didn’t learn of the prophecy until about a year later … and his heinous solution was to kill ALL magical children born around that time.”

Harry shuddered in his pyjamas. “And I was one of those children?”

“You were,” Sirius confirmed. “There were at least _twelve_ others at risk besides you, for Voldemort decided to kill _all_ children born in July and early August, just to make a clean job of it. The idea horrified us all, but none more so than your mother, who had made great friends with all the other mothers in her maternity circle. She was the most powerful witch of them all, and was just desperate to do something to help.

“Her solution was as brave as it was dangerous. Your parents decided to _use_ you, to prepare a ritual for when Voldemort came to attack you. Dumbledore helped Lily to perform several illegal curses on Severus Snape, so that he would plant the idea in Voldemort’s mind that you were the most likely child of the prophecy, in the hope that you would be targeted first. His hatred and jealousy of your father would make him _very_ motivated to succeed. But Lily’s actions would have landed her a life sentence in Azkaban for the crime, such is the depth of its invasive nature.”

“So that’s why you had to help them go into hiding!” Harry cried. “To keep my Mum from prison!”

“Exactly,” Sirius nodded. “I knew I could escape the Dementors in my dog form. Your Mum couldn’t have. So we staged their _‘death_ ’,I went to prison, then slipped back into the Ministry of Magic to wait. Everyone thought I’d killed your parents - and you - on behalf of Voldemort, and Snape even made _him_ believe that his biggest threat was eliminated. Then he suggested Voldemort break into the Ministry to find the Prophecy for himself, and confirm that the child mentioned was _you_.

“So, we lured him London, into the very bowels of the Ministry of Magic. He saw Lily and James and baby you, alive and well. He tried to cast a Killing Curse at you, but your Mum had been feeding you a special Elixir, which made you pretty much temporarily invincible. The Killing Curse just bounced off you, and your Dad had prepared a clever runic ritual circle - that basically sucked Voldemort’s magic from him when it trapped the rebounded spell - then I tackled him to try and wrestle his wand away.

“But I tripped on his cloak and we both fell … through a Veil that led to _another world_.”

Harry blinked hard as he listened to the story. “By _another world_ I’m guessing you don’t mean the Muggle World, or the underworld … or Disneyworld?”

“No, this was another _reality_ altogether,” Sirius explained. “Similar to ours in most ways, but different in just as many. The main difference _there_ to here was that peoples’ souls took _physical_ form outside of their bodies. They could talk and think for themselves, but were psychically linked to their human. They were called _d_ _æ_ _mons_ … and were _animal_ formed, as aspects of the human personality.”

Sirius looked pointedly at Papageno, and Harry hauled in a startled breath.

“You … y-you’re _Hermione’s_ dæmon … you’re her _soul_!?”

“An aspect of it, yes,” Papageno confirmed. “You mentioned how I described us as ‘ _we’_ earlier. Well, that’s because we are _one_. She and I are the same being. I think what she thinks, know what she knows … _feel_ what she feels. That’s why it took less than a second for me to agree to stay and watch over you while she sleeps.”

Harry blushed at that, as though Hermione herself had said it. This was very weird.

“Thank you. Will you tell Hermione how grateful I am .. that she cares enough to leave a bit of her _soul_ here to look after me?”

“If I know, _she_ already knows, too. It will make her sleep that little bit easier.”

Harry’s head felt wobbly as he tried to process all this.

“Then … Hermione is from _that_ world, the one you went to? _That's_ the big secret?” Harry asked Sirius, who nodded back. “Okay, that's not anything like as bad as you were making out. I suppose the big question is, why is she here?”

Sirius looked at Papageno again, and a decision was made between them, but Harry had no idea what it was all about.

“We came … to meet _you_ ,” Papageno responded calmly.

“Me?” Harry stuttered, genuinely stunned. “Why … how?”

“A substance called _Dust_ , which infuses and enlightens all living things, told us that a boy in this world needed our help,” Papageno explained. “We didn’t know who he was, or how we were supposed to help him, or even what he needed help _doing_. All we knew is that our future lay in this world. So here we are.”

Harry’s face dropped. “And is that the only reason Hermione is friends with me? To fulfil this destiny, whatever it might be?”

“That is the _last_ reason she is - _we are -_ friends with you!” Papageno cried hotly, leaping up in animated anxiety, his bushy tail erect and pointy. “We think you are the smartest, kindest, best person we’ve ever met. The fact that you also happen to be this boy we were told about is just a lucky bonus! We were scared, afraid that you might be horrible, mean and cruel. Like people in _our_ world often were to us. That you might tease us, reject us, send us away. But you haven’t … you’ve accepted us, played with us, been friends with us just _because_ … and we just _love_ that about you.”

Harry scowled deeply, angrily. “People were mean to Hermione? _Cruel_ to her? What people?”

“Girls at our last school,” Papageno clarified. “They were jealous of our intelligence, made fun of us for being better than them in our classes. Hermione cried a lot in that world. She hasn’t shed _one single tear_ since meeting _you_! We are so much _happier_ to be here.”

“So, just so I’ve got this right in my head,” Harry began sternly. “Hermione was told that I needed her help somehow and, without knowing anything more about it - _or_ me - just … _came?_ From _another world,_ leaving her life there behind?”

“Yes, pretty much,” Papageno nodded.

“But Hermione is afraid _now_ that I wont like her, just because she’s from a different place?” Harry queried, still scowling, even more angry at the images in his mind.

“Terrified,” Papageno confirmed.

“Right,” Harry huffed crossly.

Then he made to get up, but Sirius threw an arm out to stop him.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” Sirius demanded. “You’re injured, you need rest.”

“I can rest later,” Harry rebuffed firmly. “Let me go, please.”

“Not until you tell me where you’re going.”

Harry rounded on Sirius with an angry expression. “My best friend is afraid, probably worrying herself _sick_ about what is going on down here, about what I’m thinking. So I’m going to tell her. And if you try and stop me, I’ll bite you. Now let me go!”

Sirius stepped back and let Harry pass. He had the good sense to pull a dressing gown and slippers on, for the flagged stone corridors were chilly and breezy at this time of night. Harry hurried along the shadowy passages and staircases, hoping that for once he wouldn’t lose his way. This was too important to waste time on a trick doorway.

Thankfully, he found his way to the Gryffindor Common Room without incident. It was almost as if Hogwarts herself was helping him tonight. Harry tumbled through the Portrait Hole and into the room. He was beginning to wonder just how he was going to get into the girls’ dormitory, when he heard a sleepy little breath from over near the fire.

Heart tittering in his chest, Harry tiptoed over to the battered old couch. There, curled up with her frizzy hair askew on the armrest, was Hermione looking obscenely peaceful. Harry stared fondly at her for a full minute. He felt a pinprick of a brand new feeling somewhere deep inside him that was totally baffling and scary, but exciting too. He'd never felt it before, and wondered vaguely if it had a name. It was like coming around the corner of a new continent and finding a golden, sandy beach full of the sweetest fruit. Harry wondered how he might get to it.

Then, from behind him, came a whispered ‘ _Psst’._

Harry turned to see Sirius conjure a cosy blanket with his wand. He noticed then that the fire had dwindled to dull embers and a breeze was tickling around from the ancient window frames. Harry took the blanket, edged himself around to the front of the couch and delicately folded it over Hermione, taking great care not to wake her as he tucked the woollen corners around her shoulders.

Then he sat himself down on the floor, his head against the front of the armrest. He could smell the shampoo from Hermione’s hair from here.

“This isn’t what I’d call _rest_!” Sirius quirked.

“Sshh!” Harry hissed. “You’ll wake her!”

“I thought that’s what _you_ wanted to do?”

“Well … I changed my mind,” Harry returned flatly. “But as soon as she wakes up, I want to be right here - to tell her that she's worrying about _absolutely nothing_. That I'll be her friend no matter what. That I'll _never_ tease her hurtfully, or make her cry, or call her names, or make fun of her for being the cleverest person I'll ever meet. To _tell_ her that she's the cleverest person I'll ever meet - because I don't think I have told her yet - and that I'm lucky to have met her, and that I really wish we'd met sooner, and that I'm really, _really_ glad she came all this way just to meet _me_. I just hope that'll be enough. Do you think it will be?”

“Just about. But wont you be cold?” Sirius asked with a wry smirk.

“I’m warm enough,” Harry replied in a shivery breath.

Then Papageno padded over to him, took a look up at Hermione, then _jumped into Harry’s lap!_ Hermione stirred but didn’t wake. But it was _Sirius’_ reaction that surprised Harry the most. For he gasped in such shock it was as if he’d seen a ghost … _naked_.

“What?” Harry queried. He was cross that all of Sirius’ silly noises would wake up Hermione if he wasn’t careful.

“Well, it’s … Papageno! He’s _touching_ you!”

“So? I’ve smoothed him before,” Harry frowned.

“You _have_? When?” Sirius breathed out.

“On the train, when we first met,” Harry revealed. “What’s the big deal?”

“The _big deal_ is that in _their_ world, a dæmon is an aspect of a person’s _soul_ … or didn’t you hear that bit?” Sirius whispered in that awestruck tone.

Harry blinked in surprise, as he suddenly began to understand. “So … if I’m petting Crook - sorry, _Papageno_ \- I’m _touching_ Hermione’s _soul_ … is _that_ what you’re saying?”

“Essentially,” Papageno replied off-handedly, still pawing around on Harry’s lap and trying to get comfortable. “And in our world it is seen as strictly taboo, to touch the dæmon of another person. It is like crossing the most intimate of boundaries. You can call me _Pap_ , by the way. If you like, of course.”

Harry looked down quizzically at the talking cat in his lap. “If it’s such a violation, to touch another’s dæmon, why are you _sitting on me_?”

“Because Hermione doesn’t mind it, and neither do I.”

Harry gasped deeply. “Hermione _doesn’t mind_ … if I _touch her soul_?”

“No. She quite likes it, actually,” Papageno replied simply. "She thinks you have a very gentle touch. Though it tickles a lot."

Harry looked up at Sirius in abject confusion. What did any of this mean?

Sirius seemed to understand, as he smiled down at them. “One day, I’ll explain it properly to you. Or - if it happens that way _first_ \- you can tell _me_ all about it!”

“Explain _what_?” Harry moaned in his confusedness. “How am I supposed to explain this to _you_? I have no idea what's going on at all! Not a single clue!”

“Just ask _your_ dæmon … she lives _inside you_ , after all!” Sirius quirked.

Harry drew in another startled breath _. “I_ have a dæmon? What is it?”

“We don’t know, but we have been guessing about it,” Papageno observed. “We think it’s probably some sort of big cat, or a big lizard, or it could be neither. But we suspect it will be something big … to match your heart.”

“Or his _mouth!_ ” Sirius teased, as Harry felt his cheeks ignite.

“Shut up, you!” Harry huffed. “You owe me a _lot_ of explaining in the morning. So don’t think about running away. You can have my bunk for tonight. Top floor dorm, the one just to the left of the door. Do you remember the way?”

Sirius smirked down at him. “I’m sure it will all come flooding back to me. Though I might give your room-mates a bit of a fright!”

“That’ll be a great prank!” Harry grinned. “Just make sure you scare Ron Weasley the most! I want him to think you’re a death omen, or something. Really put the willies up him!”

Sirius ruffled his hair and transformed into his dog form before padding up the stairs. Harry waited until Papageno had settled in his lap before closing his eyes and drifting off himself. As soon as Harry's light snores began, Papageno opened one eye and said quietly -

“It’s safe now. He's sleeping.”

Hermione, who had been awake the whole time and just pretending, opened her eyes and allowed the hugest smile she’d ever worn to bloom across her face. She edged over and, after a trembling pause, placed the shiest, tiniest kiss to the top of Harry’s sleepy head. In truth, the touch of her lips was so light that Harry probably wouldn’t have felt it even if he’d been fully awake, but it was as brave as Hermione felt she could be just now.

In fact, fighting trolls aside, it was the bravest thing she felt she’d _ever_ done. She smiled at herself as she moved gently away.

“Goodnight, Harry. Sleep tight,” she whispered again, before settling down to sleep once more. 


	13. A Scratch and a Snitch

November breezed into Hogwarts like a cold blast from the Arctic. Every morning the ground was covered in a thick layer of frost, and the Prefects were commandeered to walk around casting melting charms on the walkways, just so that more students didn’t slip on the icy surface and follow Neville, who had already slipped over three times, for spells in the Hospital Wing.

Even more icy than the air and frost was Hermione’s attitude to Ron Weasley. She now point blank refused to speak to him, or even acknowledge his existence. She rebuffed his stumbling, half-hearted attempt at apology, on the one time he was brave enough to try, and actually got so upset in her angry rant that Professor Sprout - who was trying to teach them at the time - had to send Hermione to a time-out amongst some flowering Columbian Opioid plants until she calmed down.

“It’s not even because Ron put _her_ in danger,” Papageno explained to Harry. “She might have been able to overlook that, because he was _trying_ to do the right thing. It’s the fact that _you_ were so hurt that she cant forgive him.”

“Oh … really?” Harry queried, as a happy glow stole across his cheeks.

Harry stared fondly at Hermione as they watched her perform a sort of faerie rain-dance along the shores of the Great Lake. For it had turned out the Opioid plants were of a particularly potent variety, and Hermione had spent Transfiguration trying to catch an errant, hallucinated unicorn who was prancing between the rows of seats, until Professor McGonagall excused her from the lesson and told Harry to take her for some fresh air.

It was still very odd to be talking to Papageno, and Harry wasn’t entirely sure how comfortable he was with it yet. The more he thought about what Pap _was_ , the more he felt like he was intruding on the most private and intimate parts of his best friend. The mere act of _looking_ at the dæmon felt thrillingly forbidden, but Harry was addicted to the sensation. It was like talking to another person, too, and Harry was often careless in his speech, saying things to the cat that he might not have said to Hermione’s face.

Then he would remember that Hermione and Pap were of one mind, and she’d know everything he’d said, and Harry would be far too embarrassed to speak to her when they met up. Like when he told Pap that he played Quidditch much better when Hermione came to watch, and that he often flew by her seat just to hear her clapping for him. It made him fly that little bit faster and catch the Snitch a little bit quicker.

Quite why _that_ embarrassed _her_ so much Harry couldn’t fathom. But when they had both stopped flushing enough to speak, after Hermione joined Harry following a training session, she repaid his compliment by giving him the best motivational speech ever invented in the history of Harry Potter’s world.

“Are you ready for the match against Slytherin on Saturday?” Hermione asked, as they walked slowly back to the castle from the Quidditch pitch with Pap circling their feet.

“Well … I’ve been practising a lot,” Harry mumbled, wringing his hands. “And I think I’ve been okay.”

“You’ve been better than _okay_ ,” Hermione told him supportively. “You’ve been brilliant. I bet that little golden ball is sick of being in your fingers at this point!”

“Thanks,” Harry grinned shyly. He was still fumbling with those same digits, though. “But it’ll be different in a match, won’t it? There will be a whole seven other players, and they are all Slytherins. I’m pretty sure Fred and George Weasley went easy on me with their Beater work in training. The Green Snakes wont be as courteous. They’ll more likely try to hammer me off my broom!”

“You’re nervous,” Hermione stated gently, sounding surprised.

“Bit nervous, yeah,” Harry muttered. He couldn’t quite meet Hermione’s eye just then

Hermione stopped and turned to look at him. “Harry … there’s something I want you to do for me on Saturday.”

“What is it?”

“Come here,” Hermione beckoned him closer. Then she leaned in as if to tell him a secret. Harry felt his heart miss several beats as Hermione breathed into his ear. “Come _here_ ... _win_ , Harry. I want you to win for me.”

Harry beamed widely as Hermione stepped back and smiled prettily at him. Now, quite suddenly, he couldn’t _wait_ for Saturday to come.

But three days was a long time at Hogwarts, long enough for just about anything to happen. And so it proved, as Harry and Papageno were keeping an eye on Hermione in her drug-induced trance. Harry happened to turn away from Pap, to hide the tint to his cheeks, following his declaration that Hermione was more angry that Ron had put _Harry_ in danger than herself.

That’s when he saw Severus Snape limping towards Hagrid’s cabin.

Harry wasn’t sure what he was more curious about - Snape’s limp, or the fact that he was heading to see Hagrid at all. For such a sneering, cretin of a man, it didn’t make sense that he would visit Hagrid for a social call.

“Pap, I’m just going to see what Snape is up to at Hagrid’s,” Harry announced. “Keep an eye on Hermione.”

“Dont do anything reckless,” Papageno warned, sounding remarkably like his human.

Harry nodded, but it was with these words of caution echoing in his head that he hurried up the slope towards the gamekeeper’s cabin. Harry edged around the side of the hut, questing for the open window near Hagrid’s cooking range. Hushed, pained voices reached his ears, as well as the most pungent, acrid stench Harry could ever remember coming across.

It smelled like decaying flesh.

“Care to explain _this_!” Snape hissed. “What sort of poison does that infernal creature of yours carry? None of my antidotes are touching this.”

“Fluffy is a fierce magical creature,” Hagrid returned bluntly. “Wha’ do you expect? Sunshine and daisies? Still, better let me take a look.”

Harry was dying to know just _what_ Hagrid was taking a look at. So he eased his head up to peer inside the window. He saw Snape, his robe pulled up above his thigh, and Hagrid unwrapping bloody bandages from around a pus-filled, oozing and mangled wound. The smell was atrocious, even from Harry’s position outside.

“Ooh, tha’s a nasty one, alright,” Hagrid assessed critically. “Claw was it?”

“Took me by surprise, while I was trying to avoid the heads,” Snape spat. “You try checking a locked trapdoor with monstrous beast like that trying to slash you up for a snack.”

“I told you, just play Fluffy a bit o’ music … or sing to him,” Hagrid reminded Snape. “He's partial to a bit of Elvis Presley. Sends him right to sleep.”

“You keep flapping your jaw like that and _anyone_ could find out how to subdue that animal upstairs,” Snape warned. “You do _know_ what it’s guarding, don’t you? How dangerous it could be if the Dark Lord ever recovered it?”

“O’ course I do,” Hagrid boomed. “And I wouldn’t let Dumbledore down. I’d rather drink acid.”

“You just keep remembering that, and keep your voice down,” Snape hissed. “Now … do something about this wound.”

Harry slipped away and trotted back down to the shores of the Lake. He dearly wished Hermione was cogent enough to discuss this with him, but even _Pap_ was now being affected by the power of the Opioid plants. He was walking on his hind legs and playing an imaginary fiddle, as Hermione hitched up her cloak and did an impromptu tap routine.

Harry just sat and kept half an eye on them as he thought. So, Fluffy _was_ at Hogwarts, guarding this Ruby for Dumbledore’s friend. The teachers must have decided to cover the hole on the third floor with a trapdoor for now, but Fluffy still needed to stand guard over it. Which meant that _someone_ else was still at Hogwarts trying to get through it. But if Snape was checking that it was still _locked_ when he got injured, it couldn't be _him_.

Then … who was it?

Harry didn’t have a long list of suspects. Of all the people at the school who might _want_ to steal a powerful artefact, Snape seemed the cartoon villain. In his sweeping robes, his bat-like presence and his permanent scowl, he fitted the profile nicely. And Harry was _longing_ for it to be him, on account of the fact that Harry couldn’t stand the snake. It was a nice daydream, to envisage catching Snape in the act of theft and turning him over to Dumbledore for summary execution.

But _that_ would have to wait for another day.

Then Harry had a stark thought. He didn’t even know _what_ this Ruby was that the thief was after. Or what it did. _The Flamellian Ruby …_ it sounded like a _thing_ \- something famous. Something people would know about. Flamellian? Harry didn’t know what that meant, had never heard of it before. Could it be from a place, like Neapolitan Ice Cream? Or maybe a person, like Jungian theory?

He would have to do some investigation into this. Harry decided not to ask his parents, or Sirius, or Minerva, as all of them had an innate sense when it came to sniffing out Harry being _up to something_. This was something he wanted to explore under the cover of secrecy, so adult counsel was out of the question.

Friday evening found Harry and Hermione sat on opposite ends of the couch in the Common Room. Hermione had finally come down from the Moon and Harry was telling her about what he’d seen with Snape and Hagrid, as he proofread her Transfiguration homework.

“It does seem that the traitor is still here,” Hermione agreed. “And that Snape was trying to stop him. You _did_ say that Dumbledore gave him a funny look when he heard about the troll. But who would be good with trolls, if they used it as a diversion? Oh, and if you grip the underside - as well as the upperside - of your broom, evasive rolls from Bludgers are twenty-seven percent more effective.”

Their conversation was a bit disjointed like this, as Hermione punctuated their musings by reading facts and tips from _Quidditch Through The Ages_ , which was spread open between her knees.

“I’ll try to remember that one,” Harry grinned at her.

“Personally, if _I_ knew that there was a giant dog on the third floor, I wouldn’t go anywhere near it. Actually, now I _do_ know … so I definitely wont!”

Neville, who was sat near the fire, huddled into himself as the image of a giant, three-headed dog clouded his vision. He busied himself moving his wrist, recently healed from a sprain, after his latest run in with Scottish morning frost. He moved the joint until it felt looser.

“That’s probably for the best,” Harry teased. “But have _you_ ever heard of a Flamellian Ruby, or a Flamellian _anything_?”

Neville scrunched up his round face. “There’s something that sounds familiar about it, but I cant think what. I’m sure I’ve read the name somewhere.”

“It isn’t important tonight,” Hermione stated bossily. “All our attention has to be on Harry tomorrow.”

“On the _match_ , you mean?” Neville smirked at her.

“Yes, that’s what I said,” Hermione replied, confused. “Right. There are seven hundred ways to commit a foul in Quidditch -”

“- and the Slytherins will probably try to do _all_ of them on me,” Harry mused grimly.

“Probably,” Hermione agreed gravely. “And the Seeker is usually the one who gets injured most and worst. Oh dear … is there any chance I might convince you not to play?”

“Not if you want me to keep my promise,” Harry reminded her shyly.

“Oh … right,” Hermione replied, blushing furiously. “Of course. Yes, you have to play, then.”

“What promise?” asked Neville, lightly.

“Never you mind!” Harry and Hermione snapped in unison.

Neville just laughed at them as they averted their eyes from each other. “Yeah … definitely not _going out,_ are you? Merlin above!”

Either way, it ended the conversation at a stroke. Harry went to bed with his head ringing with Quidditch moves, and pictures of glowing rubies, and Hermione’s glowing eyes, where she sneaked little glances at him over the top of her book. He decided to forget researching Flamellian artefacts and instead turn his attention to decoding eye expressions. For if he did that, perhaps he could _finally_ work out what Hermione’s loaded looks were subtly trying to tell him.

The morning dawned fresh and cool. It meant that the pitch would be nice and firm, which - according to Oliver Wood - was a good thing. Harry couldn’t see _how_ , given that Quidditch was played in the _air_ , but Wood seemed to know what he was talking about and Harry knew that Hermione could probably recite the reason, if he was really that desperate to know about it.

Harry tried to eat, but his insides felt a little bit like the oozy substance that Harry had seen seeping from Snape’s mangled leg.

“You need your strength,” Hermione insisted, poking a muffin towards him.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Just a bit of toast,” Hermione wheedled. “Or a crumpet maybe.”

“No, thanks.”

“How about my last Chocolate Frog?”

Actually, that sounded quite nice. So Harry accepted it when Hermione offered it to him.

“Better?” Hermione asked.

“Yeah, a bit better,” Harry allowed, swallowing the chocolate leg.

“What card did you get?” Hermione quipped.

“Dumbledore - again,” Harry replied, looking at the facsimile of the Headmaster as he moved out of frame. “I’ve got about seven of him.”

Harry pocketed the card in his robes for now.

“Well, at least you’ve eaten _something_ ,” Hermione huffed. It was quite clear that she didn’t approve of chocolate for breakfast, or as a pre-Quidditch meal.

Then Harry spotted a little placard next to the bench at Hermione’s feet.

“What’s that?”

“Oh … well,” Hermione began cautiously, her skin colouring. “Lavender and Fay thought it would be a good idea for us first-years to support you _personally_ today. As you’re the youngest Seeker in a century. So six of us have each got letter, that together will spell out your surname. Dean has done the drawing, as he’s very good at art, and Parvati thought _I_ should have the big letter ‘P’. Can’t imagine _why_ …”

Harry flushed as he imagined the scene in less than an hour, when his silly surname was flashing above the stands. As much as he appreciated the gesture, he could just imagine how people like Malfoy, and even Ron, would react to that. But there was little he could do about it.

“Just make sure you’re all in the right order,” Harry warned. “If it turns out I’m _rubbish_ at Quidditch, I don’t want the Slytherins making fun of you all for getting my name wrong, too.”

“You wont be rubbish,” Hermione stated confidently. “I’ve yet to come across _anything_ that you’re less than amazing at.”

“Me?” Harry replied, fitfully embarrassed. “I’m not as good as you.”

“Me? I’m all books and cleverness,” Hermione insisted. “There are much more important things.”

“Even to _you_?” Harry teased.

“Yes,” Hermione confirmed. “Things like friendship, and bravery, and - oh, _Harry …_ just go and be brilliant again. And bring that Snitch back for me.”

Then she got up. She stopped and bent down to pick up her placard. For a pregnant moment, Harry half thought she was going to do _something else_ , and he held his breath until Hermione stood upright again. She looked disappointed with herself, but before Harry had a chance to query why, she had hurried away from him to join the other Gryffindor girls.

In a whirl of cat-calls and good luck messages Harry found himself dressed and on the Quidditch Pitch. Wood was giving a speech, but Harry heard very little of it. The first-years were eagerly waving the sparkly letters that spelled out _Potter_ \- the giant ‘P’ fluttering more rabidly than all the others combined. Then, with a word of advice to avoid contact until he had to, the match began.

Early on, Harry’s broom was hit by a Bludger and started to vibrate wildly. As he tried to get it under control, Harry happened to glance down at the stands. There he saw Professor Snape place a firm hand on Professor Quirrell’s turbaned shoulder and guide him away from the teachers pulpit. Harry wondered vaguely where they were going, but a glint of gold caught his eye.

“The Gryffindor Seeker has seen the Snitch!” Lee Jordan boomed out from the commentary position, as Harry shot like a dart after the fluttering golden ball.

Five seconds later and he was closing his fist around the flapping wings.

Raucous cheering erupted from the stands as the Gryffindor team landed around Harry and celebrated a stunning victory. Harry took the Snitch in his hands and kissed the cool gold like a trophy.

“I think that belongs to me!”

Harry looked up at a beaming Hermione, who suddenly launched herself at Harry and enveloped him in the best congratulatory hug yet. The other Gryffindors whooped and whistled until Harry and Hermione finally broke apart, blushing crazily.

“You were brilliant! Amazing! Didn’t I say you’d be amazing?” Hermione cried, doing a sort of manic jig.

“You did,” Harry grinned back at her. Then he handed the Snitch to Hermione … and her expression suddenly changed.

“Harry … what does this mean?” Hermione asked, looking at the Snitch critically.

“What does _what_ mean?”

“This writing on the casing … _I Open at the Close?”_


	14. Inscriptions

“Here … this is for you.”

Harry, blushing madly, took the _very_ carefully wrapped little parcel from Hermione. He looked up at her with terribly shy, but hugely grateful, eyes. It was the first gift anyone from outside his family had ever gotten him, and though he knew he should respectfully refuse it, the fact that it was _Hermione_ who had bought it for him made Harry want to accept it more than anything in the world. He was desperately excited to know what it was.

But he still had to _pretend_ to be coy.

“Y-you didn’t have to get me anything,” Harry stuttered.

“I know I didn’t,” Hermione returned brightly. “But I _wanted_ to. As it was your first Quidditch win, I thought we ought to commemorate the event appropriately. So, are you going to open it then?”

“Can I?” Harry asked cautiously.

Hermione laughed. Harry had a tendency to be distractingly cute. Hermione was always sent into a spin by it.

“Of course you can, silly! Otherwise it wont be much of a present, will it?”

Harry supposed not. He took the package in trembling fingers and carefully unpicked the Spellotape that sealed the wrapping paper together. He was potently keen not to tear even the slightest bit of it. Eventually, after what seemed like a painstaking eternity, Harry unveiled a subdued pink sheet of crystal, with an embossed logo at the centre. It was something he recognised, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what the object was.

“The _Weird Sisters_!” he hushed reverently, smoothing the logo covetously. “I _love_ them!”

“I know,” Hermione reminded him. She grinned knowingly at Harry’s confused expression. “But you have no idea what this is, do you?”

Harry blushed shyly. “Um … no. But it’s very pretty … whatever it is!”

He added the last bit as a slightly desperate afterthought, which just made Hermione giggle harder still at his efforts to satiate her. She was inordinately pleased that he was so considerate of her feelings, and it sent a warmth rushing all through every inch of her.

“It’s okay,” she placated, tapping Harry’s knee consolingly. “These aren’t common. But, to clarify - I bought you a Q.U.E.S.T.”

“A _quest_?”

“Yes. A Quartz Unique Engraved Signed Tablet,” Hermione explained. “The Weird Sisters offer them in their merchandising magazine. Quartz is a great recorder of energy you know, especially sonic vibrations. It makes them ideal to record audio signals on. So, on this tablet you’ll find a private recording of their latest songs, plus a personalised message. Do you like it?”

Harry’s eyes were alight with fire. “Like it? I _love_ it! Thank you, Hermione!”

Then Harry reached over the sofa, where they were sitting, and hugged Hermione deeply, until someone - probably a Weasley twin - wolf-whistled at them and they broke apart, coquettishly embarrassed.

“Will … will you listen to it with me?” Harry asked quietly. “Not now, with everyone around, but later … maybe when it’s just me and you?”

Hermione turned more scarlet than Harry’s Quidditch robe, but nodded in agreement. It was all she could do, as words were lost somewhere around her rapidly beating heart. Harry grinned in thanks and they both slunk back to opposite edges of the couch to gather their furiously fluttering thoughts.

It was now a full week since Harry had inspired the Quidditch victory over Slytherin. And, as it was the first victory in seven years, the Weasley Twins had insisted on seven nights of parties, this being the seventh, to properly do the thing justice. Harry and Hermione had commandeered the old two-cushioned loveseat in the quietest corner of the raucous Common Room that night, where they had been discussing the curious inscription on the Golden Snitch Harry had caught, before Hermione had surprised him with her impromptu gift.

Now she wanted to get back on topic, whereas Harry’s mind was flooded with images of listening to heavy metal music with her under the birch tree by the Great Lake, as the stars watched down and chaperoned from above.

“It’s somewhat of a riddle, isn’t it - _I Open at the Close_? _”_ Hermione was musing. “It could mean so many different things, all equally as confusing.”

“Mmm,” Harry agreed idly, his mind still in a much more pleasant place than this discussion.

“It isn’t a good omen, either,” Hermione ploughed on. “ _Riddles_ in your life have never been a good thing, have they, if you get what I mean?”

That jolted Harry back with a thud. “No, that’s true, considering one wanted to kill me. Imagine that - being murdered by a riddle? What’s next? Karate-chopped by a conundrum? Kneecapped by a limerick?”

“ _Technically_ that’s a poem, so it doesn’t fit the pattern,” Hermione grinned impishly. “But I get your point, no matter how silly it is.”

Harry flushed at the gentle rebuke. “I suppose we have to focus on what we know. The Snitch obviously _opens_ , which means that it is hiding something inside.”

“Yes, but it only opens at the _close,_ ” Hermione nodded. “The question is, _the close of what_?”

Just then, a nervous little voice carried to them from the Jester’s Stool near the Portrait Hole. It was from on this rickety wooden seat that readings of poetry and jokes were traditionally told to entertain the Gryffindors on cold winter nights. But nowadays it was reserved for students who had lost the House the most points that week, or else brought Gryffindor into disrepute in some other way. It was usually occupied by one or other of the Weasley twins, who saw it as something as a badge of honour to be seated there.

But, right now, it was occupied by their younger brother. Quite why was a mystery to Harry and Hermione, who tended to have little to do with Ron Weasley, but it was his voice that came to them now.

“A-all Snitches have that engraving,” he mumbled.

Harry looked at Hermione, and _she_ sent him one of their silent communications, asking whether they should indulge Ron this once. It was just a deft swish of her eyes that most people probably wouldn’t have even noticed happening, but Harry understood it as if she’d written the words in fire on the carpet. Harry agreed with a subtle double blink.

“They do?” Hermione asked, curiously. “Why?”

Ron cleared his throat and turned to them fully. For a moment, he looked ready to jump up and join them, but then lost his nerve and chose to cling to the rim of his seat instead. It was then that Harry noticed that _no-one_ was anywhere near Ron. It was as if he were some sort of pariah, and everyone was giving him a wide berth. How odd.

“Well, Snitches are made with a special kind of gold,” Ron explained, his voice taking on a zeal and eagerness as he relaxed into the explanation. “Gold made by alchemists. It gets imbibed with Flesh Memory, because it’s been created in this way. When a new Snitch is caught for the first time in the professional game, the engraving comes out. And when the Seeker that caught it retires, the Snitch opens up to reveal a jewel, that then gets set into a ring, sort of like a commemorative award to mark the Seeker’s career. They are highly prized, and quite rare. It’s odd that _your_ Snitch says that though, as the same one has been used at Hogwarts for years.”

Harry looked at Hermione again. There was such assuredness in Ron’s tone that Harry was inclined to believe the words of this well-established fantasist, despite his track record of being woefully incorrect with so many other pieces of knowledge.

But Hermione was not to be so easily convinced. Not without a substantial cross examination of fact-checking.

“How do you know all this?” she asked briskly.

“I - I’m a big fan of Quidditch, love it actually,” Ron muttered, losing his confidence under the weight of Hermione’s accusatory glare. “It’s just one of those things that you know, as a fan I mean. You can look it up, if you don’t believe me.”

As it was, Hermione _didn’t_ believe him and she would _definitely_ be checking up on it. But that was something for later.

“And how do you know the same Snitch has been used at Hogwarts for years?” Hermione pressed on.

“My brother, Charlie, was a Seeker here,” Ron explained. “He said you could tell, ‘cause the wings of the Snitch were bent and battered and the lustre on the casing had faded.”

Now this was something Hermione could check right away. She thrust out her hand and clicked her fingers impatiently when Harry didn’t move. Then he understood. He had taken to carrying the Snitch around with him, taking it out every once in a while and letting it flutter away, seeing how far it could get from him before he snatched it back again.

He placed it in Hermione’s waiting palm now and then watched as she inspected it critically.

“Hmm … ahhh … curious,” she muttered to herself.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

“Harry, look how perfectly trimmed these wings are,” Hermione replied, pointing the condition out to him. “And the gold is so pristine you could shave in the reflection … if you were old enough to shave, of course.”

“I can shave,” Harry argued, tugging at his super smooth chin and frowning at the lack of any sort of growth there, which made Hermione grin at him. “What’s your point?”

“My point is that this Snitch looks _brand new_ ,” Hermione explained. “And if what Ron says is true, it must have been made with alchemical gold before being brought to Hogwarts.”

“Now why would anyone do that?” Harry argued. “Sounds like a complex and expensive thing to do for a school.”

“It was probably Nicolas Flamel,” Ron remarked off-handedly.

Harry drew in a sharp, shocked breath. “Who?”

“Nicolas Flamel, the famous alchemist,” Ron replied, seeming surprised that he knew something that the illustrious, best-performing first-year duo didn’t. “He’s a great friend of Dumbledore. Probably made him a new Snitch from his alchemical gold as a birthday present or something. They do a lot of work on alchemy together.”

“Now how in the name of Merlin do you know _that_!?” Hermione insisted shrilly.

“Um, easy … it says so on the back of his Chocolate Frog card,” Ron mumbled in reply. Hermione seemed to be borderline terrifying him with her mere tone. “I’ve got a collection of about five hundred cards, and loads of Dumbledore. You don’t just collect and trade them, but you play for them too, testing the facts listed on the card. If I was playing you for a card, and you didn’t know the fact I was asking, I’d win the card from you. Get it?”

“I get it,” Hermione frowned crossly, genuinely offended by the idea that Ron could beat her in any sort of test.

“And I’ve _got it!_ ” Harry cried triumphantly. He reached into his robe and drew out the card he’d gotten in Hermione’s last Chocolate Frog, the one she’d given him before the Quidditch match. Amazingly, it was still there. He read it quickly, and saw that Ron was completely right. He showed the card to Hermione, who speed read it in about three seconds.

“Nicolas Flamel … an alchemist … Harry - you don’t think -”

“- I do … _the Flamellian Ruby!”_

“Come on, if we’re quick we might get a whole hour in the library before it closes,” Hermione shrieked, grabbing Harry’s hand and nearly tearing his arm from it’s socket, as she dragged him to his feet and towards the Portrait Hole. The usual wolf-whistles and saucy comments rained over their heads as they left the Common Room in such a hurry, but Harry did have the good manners to turn back before they left.

“Hey Ron … thanks.”

Harry nodded his appreciation to the youngest Weasley, who he felt had earned his words. Ron flushed as red as his hair, and sheepishly nodded back.

* * *

Finding out about Flamel was easy after that. As the only known _living_ alchemist, Nicolas Flamel was naturally well-documented. At nearly six-hundred and fifty years old he was something of a curiosity to the magical world. The attention had grown too much in recent years - recent for _him_ being the last fifty - and so he and his wife, Perenelle, had left Paris to live a quiet life in rural Kent. Their daughter, Amelie - who was a renowned witch in her own right - now managed their estate in France and also had a long-standing connection to Albus Dumbledore, whom she had once competed against in an inter-schools tournament when they were teenagers, though Harry could find little information on _that_ fascinating story.

Hermione seemed less interested in the idea of pitting her talents against the students of other magical schools as she was about what might be currently being hidden in _this_ one. Ever since they’d learned about Flamel her attention had turned to understanding more about this ruby that carried his name … and the revelation was astonishing.

“It’s actually more commonly known as a _Philosopher’s Stone_ ,” she explained to Harry one night, as he labelled her star chart of the solar system and coloured in the planets for her with pencil crayons. Hermione had no patience for such trivial tasks. “And you’ll be _amazed_ by what it does.”

“Go on,” Harry encouraged, as he carefully shaded the Big Red Spot of Jupiter.

“Well, it creates a special seed or powder - which I suppose would be a type of chemical - that will turn any metal into gold,” Hermione went on brightly. “It’s how the gold of my Snitch was made, I bet.”

“I bet,” Harry agreed with a little grin.

“Not only _that_ , but the Stone creates a substance called The Elixir of Life. It does what it says - _prolongs life_. Indefinitely, so long as the alchemist has a supply of the Elixir. It will cure any disease or degenerative process, including _ageing_. In effect, it would make the drinker _immortal_. And eternally young, or at their peak age maybe.”

“I can certainly see why Voldemort would want it,” Harry mused. “I mean, who wouldn’t? You’d be filthy rich, young, be able to live forever. You’d be invulnerable.”

“So long as you didn’t have a heart,” Hermione argued crossly.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, looking up in surprise.

Hermione huffed and placed her hands to her hips. “ _You_ might live forever, but you’d have to watch your friends and loved ones die. I wouldn’t want that. It’d be terrible.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll share my Elixir with you,” Harry teased without really thinking about what he was saying. “We can live forever together.”

Hermione’s cheeks flashed with colour. It was a good job the Astronomy Tower was dark as Harry didn’t see. Equally as fortunate was that the nearest person was a good ten feet away, otherwise the heat from Hermione’s skin might have set them ablaze. Harry, blissfully ignorant, went on chirpily.

“Imagine what you could buy with all that gold?” he breathed in reverently. “I’d have to get a huge house, with a big stage, then I could pay the Weird Sisters to play a concert for me every week. And I’d buy my mum and dad a house nearby … not too close, as I’d want my privacy … and my wife would too, don’t you think?”

“I … what?” Hermione spluttered. “How would _I_ know that?”

“Well, you’re a girl, you’ll be a wife someday, wont you?” Harry pointed out fairly. “You’d want privacy then, wouldn’t you.”

“What makes you so sure I’ll be a wife?” Hermione asked lowly. “What if I don’t want to get married?”

“I didn’t think of that,” Harry replied honestly. “I mean … don’t you?”

“I’m twelve, I can’t say I’ve thought about it much,” Hermione replied, which was as evasive a lie as she’d ever told, and she’d told some big ones. “Besides, even if I _do_ , who’s to say that anyone would want me? What if I didn’t find anyone who wanted to marry me?”

“Now that’s just nonsense! Who _wouldn’t_ want to marry you?” Harry blurted out on reflex. Then he snapped his jaws together with such force that he was afraid he’d cracked a tooth in the impact. He looked down and began furiously colouring in the ice moon Europa in brilliant white, unable to lift his eyes to Hermione’s face. But he couldn’t ignore her when she stepped in close to his side and whispered in a satin-soft tone.

“That was sweet of you to say. Thank you.”

“It was only the truth,” Harry muttered back shyly. “No need to thank me for it.”

“It was still nice of you,” Hermione hushed on. “Oh, by the way, you missed a bit.”

Then she leaned in further still, to point out a gap in Harry’s colouring, and for a breathless moment her cheek brushed against Harry’s as her head passed his. He lost his mind at the fleeting contact, which came and went in a fraction of a heartbeat and, for the first time, he understood a fundamental new truth.

This is what it must feel like … when your _d_ _æ_ _mon_ is touched!

It was electrifying and terrifying, sickening and empowering all at the same time. The feeling was heady and intimate, and left Harry giddy a second as he tried to process the sensation. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to feel it again, but was instantly obsessed with the possibility of being overwhelmed by it, almost as if it was something to be desired as well as abhorred. It was the weirdest thing.

And the fact that Hermione _liked it_ when Harry touched Papageno … it meant a million new things in that instant. Harry didn’t understand all of them, but he was desperate to find out what it all meant.

Just then the class ended. Harry and Hermione packed their things away quietly and followed the other students down the spiral staircase of the Astronomy Tower. It was nearly one o’clock in the morning now, and tiredness was sweeping in to the young minds as they wandered back towards their dorms. The fatigue was so great that Harry suddenly realised he’d left his wand on the Tower.

“I’ll have to run back and get it,” Harry moaned. “What an idiot!”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Hermione asked, yawning widely.

“No, you go on and get to bed. I wont be a minute.”

So Harry darted away. He hurried up the spiral stairs, found his wand still there on the workbench and pocketed it before making his way back along the dark corridors.

The problem was, they’d chosen that precise moment to _move_.

“Great,” Harry huffed. “Perfect timing!”

There was nothing to do but wait for the castle to reconfigure itself. Quite why it did this was a mystery, one that an angry Harry vowed to find out about and put a stop to. What was the point? Either way, there was no point complaining about it. He could be _anywhere_ in the castle now and just had to find something familiar to plot a route back before he was officially declared missing.

So he stomped along the corridors, took dark turns, tried out a few trick doors and false staircases that led to nothing but brick walls. Frustration increasing, Harry bundled himself through a tapestry in his cross desperation, and nearly fell over in his surprise.

“Hermione! I told you not to wait for me!” he cried as he was faced with her. But Hermione didn’t reply, merely smiled serenely at him.

That’s when he saw it, realised what he was looking at. It wasn’t _Hermione_ at all - but simply a _reflection_ of her. One made by a gigantic mirror … one that stood almost from floor-to-ceiling … and it sparked a memory that Harry had completely forgotten.

“I’ve _seen_ this _!”_ he hissed in shock, recognising the mirror from that first day he’d visited the flat in London. His father had been storing it for Dumbledore … and now it had made its way here.

“But why?” Harry thought aloud.

Then his eyes fell on the image of Hermione, who was still smiling at him … and Harry’s heart suddenly stopped in his chest.

The vision … the one he’d seen … the ‘ghost girl’ with all that hair … hair _just like_ Hermione’s … the one who’d been holding his hand …

It _couldn’t_ be … could it?

The next morning Harry was pale with exhaustion - as he’d sat in front of the mirror for hours - but his eyes were bright with fervour, as he told Hermione all about what he’d found. He left out most of the key details - like the hand-holding and that he thought the ghost girl might actually have somehow _been_ Hermione, though he had no idea about what that meant - and she absorbed his story with keen interest. Then she added a few details of her own.

“You know, Lyra had a funny mirror in _her_ flat, come to mention it,” she pondered. “It had a strange carving around the outside, too. I wonder if it’s like the one on _this_ mirror.”

“W-what did the mirror do?” Harry asked, fitfully shy in case Hermione was about to confess that she’d seen _his_ image in her mirror or something. It seemed the sort of headstart on their friendship that Hermione would always seem to have over him.

“It didn’t _do_ anything,” Hermione explained. “Not that we could tell, anyway. It was just a mirror.”

“But it’s a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?” Harry pressed enthusiastically. “I mean, you saw a mirror in a flat in London, while at the same time in _my world_ I see a mirror in a flat in London, see someone that looks like you, then we go on to meet. Don’t you think it’s odd? Like your Dust at work, or something?”

“You … um … didn’t say the ghost you saw looked like me …”

Harry blinked at Hermione, realised his slip and turned his eyes down to the floor coyly.

“The ghost … _did_ she look like me?” Hermione whispered gently.

“Not _exactly_ ,” Harry confessed. “But her hair … well, it was just like yours. I’d forgotten how much like it till last night. Then it just sort of _clicked_. Could it be possible … that I _did_ see you in the mirror?”

“Harry - we are in a school studying _magic!”_ Hermione giggled. “There isn’t much that isn’t possible. Maybe the mirrors reflect the other world, connect them somehow. Tonight, we’ll try to find it, and maybe find some answers, too.”

“Am I hearing this right?” Harry grinned teasingly. “Hermione Granger, outright advocating breaking about fifty school rules?”

“It’s your fault. You’re a terrible influence on me,” Hermione giggled back. “What would my parents say?”

She stopped short of speculating out loud, for her parents - both real and pretend sets - would have pointed out that she was simply aiding the boy she was fated to fall in love with, and she still wasn’t sure if Harry was ready to absorb this little detail just yet, despite the increasing indicators that he would be quite cheery to have such knowledge.

That was a surprise Hermione was saving for a special occasion.

So that night, under the cover of Harry’s Invisibility Cloak, they snuck out and tried to retrace Harry’s steps to the vaulted room that housed the mirror. It took some time, as the suits of armour that Harry remembered being nearby had gone for a night-time stroll. But Harry also knew there were gargoyles there, which didn’t move, and as soon as he found them he knew the mirror was close.

After two false tries, room number three yielded success.

“Yes!” Harry whooped. “It’s still here!”

He threw off the cloak and sat cross-legged in front of the mirror. Again, as the previous night, he saw himself and Hermione, front and centre. Behind them were a mass of indistinguishable figures. There might have been dozens, hundreds even, but Harry hadn’t paid them much mind the previous night.

He had been solely focused on the image of Hermione, sat by his side ... with her hand in his.

Just then, the _real_ Hermione joined Harry on the cold stone floor and looked in the mirror. She gasped at what she saw, Harry gasped as the image changed and sharpened in focus before his eyes, and a new character appeared in the reflection between them.

A black haired baby girl, tucked under blankets in a wicker basket.

“What the - ?”

“What can you see?” Hermione hushed breathlessly.

“People … lots of people,” Harry whispered back. “Behind me I can see my parents, and what could be _their_ parents. But behind _you_ … I don’t know them.”

“That’s _my_ mum and dad!” Hermione cried lowly. “My real ones, I mean. And my grandparents behind them. But … whose baby is that? In front of _us?_ ”

Harry didn’t have the mind to answer. In any case, all the words he knew had jumbled up in his heaving chest.

“What are we looking at?” Hermione asked. Then she noticed the inscription. “Harry! Look! The carving … it’s the same as the one in Lyra’s flat! Only much clearer! What is it?”

“This, my dear Miss Granger,” came a familiar twinkly voice from the shadows. “Is the Mirror of Erised.”


	15. Portents and Promises

“They found the mirror. It wont be long before they work out what they saw.”

Dumbledore sipped at his glass of port and surveyed Sirius coyly.

“The ‘49? You broke out the vintage.”

Sirius nodded with a grin. “I thought I’d better. It might, er, grease the gears tonight.”

Sirius glanced guiltily at their guests, and offered more glasses around.

“Don’t change the subject, Albus,” Lily sniped. “Tell me what they saw!”

“They saw a _baby_ ,” Dumbledore replied gently. “ _Their_ baby. Harry and Hermione are destined to have children. I didn’t know their connection was so deep.”

“We could have guessed at it,” Malcolm proffered, accepting a glass from Sirius. “The alethiometer told Lyra so, said Harry was _dripping_ in Dust, didn’t it Lyra?”

But Lyra couldn’t answer. She was red in the face, angrier than Hell itself, but held fast by Dumbledore’s Body-Bind spell. He had thought it necessary … and the still raw scratches on Sirius’ face were testament to the old wizard’s wisdom.

“Well, it _did_ ,” Mal smirked as Lyra eyeballed him furiously. “You know, is there any way you can teach me how to do this spell? I could quite get used to Lyra in this state!”

“Alas, no,” Dumbledore remarked, still considering Lyra curiously. “Though perhaps I may suggest some sort of harness? She’s a ferocious animal, is that one.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Sirius chuckled, causing Lyra to turn her murderous eyes on him instead. “How is it that Petrificus Totalus doesn’t cover the eyes, Albus? Lyra’s like a psychotic, possessed doll over there.”

“The spell targets the limbs, rather than the whole body,” Dumbledore explained. “Ordinarily, the mouth can still move, too. But following the torrent of abrasive curses and threats that left Miss Lyra after I cast the spell, I rather felt I ought to include her jaw in the enchantment!”

“I quite agree,” Malcolm nodded, grinning at Lyra’s prostrate form. He was enjoying this too much, and he would pay for it later.

“This is all very well,” James cut in. “But we are getting way off track here. My son and this girl are destined to have a _baby_. What are we going to do about that?”

“I don’t think you should do anything,” Sirius replied. “Hermione seems to be a quite lovely sort of girl. I think you should just leave them to it, let nature take its course.”

“Harry is _eleven_ , Sirius!” James cried. “Nature can just do one!”

“I do not believe the image in the Mirror was imminent,” Dumbledore placated. “This was a vision of the future, and only a _possible,_ far off future at that.”

“What does that mean?” asked Mal. “I thought this Mirror showed the truth.”

“Far from it,” Dumbledore corrected. “The Mirror shows neither truth nor wisdom, only the heart’s desire of the viewer. What was strange about Harry and Hermione’s experience is that they saw a vision _together_ … and they saw _the same thing_. I have never heard of that, and Harry and Hermione are far from the first couple to look into the Mirror together.”

“A _couple!”_ Lily blurted out, spraying James with Pinot Grigio. “Are you saying this Hermione is Harry’s _steady girlfriend_ now _?_ ”

“There is nothing on the Hogwarts grapevine to suggest it is official,” Minerva McGonagall piped up from her seat near the window. “But you only need to watch them together for five minutes to see that they are already more than friends, even if they don’t know it themselves yet. Indeed, I would say Harry is _besotted_ with Miss Granger.”

“But their _age_ , Minerva!” Lily moaned. “They are so young.”

“And, because of that, right now they are just the best of friends,” Minerva countered gently. “But they are on the cusp of adolescence. When they begin to change in _that way_ , so will their feelings for one another.”

“Oh I don’t think their _feelings_ will change. They are already both quite set on _that_ score. If anything, they’ll only get _stronger_.”

Everyone looked over to the fireplace, where Pantalaimon was preening his claws.

“What makes you so sure?” Malcolm asked.

Lyra’s dæmon looked up balefully. It was still a shock for both Mal and Lyra to see Pan in his new owl form, coal-black with startling amber eyes. But they were getting used to it.

“I spoke to Papageno when I was last at Hogwarts,” Pan informed them. “He says Harry pets him all the time. Pap sits on his lap, allows Harry to smooth him, all sorts of things. That means Hermione is gone on Harry already. Papageno certainly is, to allow such brazen contact. And if, as you say, Harry is besotted with _her_ , then their feelings are already set. They both strike me as the implacable types.”

“That’s true,” James chuckled. “I don’t understand what all this _touching d_ _æ_ _mons_ thing means, but you say it like it’s important?”

“Imagine it as touching the deepest, most secret, most intimate part of a person,” Mal explained, throwing an oddly longing look at Pantalaimon, who looked away reticently. “Between strangers, or even friends, it would be seen as a gross violation, as though crossing the most forbidden of lines.

“But between _lovers_ , it is the act that cements the depth of their trust and intimacy between each other. Like allowing another to caress your _soul_.”

“Wow,” Lily whispered, sitting back and trying to imagine it.

“And _this_ is what you say our Harry and _Hermione’s_ dæmon do?” James queried.

“It would seem so,” Mal returned. “And if neither Hermione nor Papageno are disgusted on a fundamental level by the act, then I agree with Pantalaimon - it shows Hermione has given Harry her heart in everything but words already.”

“And later she will give him a child,” James nodded sagely. “I can live with that.”

“James!” Lily shrieked. “What a thing to say!”

“What? Harry was likely to have a family some day,” James argued. “So he met the girl he’s going to do it with very early in life. It happens. Perhaps not very often, but it happens. It’s dreadfully sweet, I think.”

“Assuming they can survive this current threat,” Dumbledore pointed out quietly.

And the air in the room tautened like a vice had pinched around it.

“Where are we with that?” James asked, instantly serious. “You still think it’s Quirrell?”

“At this point I’m borderline certain of it,” Dumbledore replied. “Severus used Priory Incantatem on his wand just after Halloween. There was an Alohomora that matched the signature we found on the dungeon door that was opened, and a spell we later recognised as a version of the Imperius, modified for larger animals.”

“Then why not just stop him, if you are so certain?” Mal asked reasonably. “Seems rather reckless to let him run about unchecked if he is so guilty.”

“Oh he isn’t going _unchecked_ , we are monitoring his movements closely,” Dumbledore returned. “But we still don’t know how he is contacting Riddle. And it is vital that we find that out. As soon as we do, we’ll bring him in.”

“Have you had any luck on that front?” Sirius asked, turning to Mal.

“No, not yet,” Malcolm huffed grimly. He was deeply frustrated by his own efforts in this area. “But we are certain the Magisterium are facilitating it. Pan has tracked a lot of owls leaving Hogwarts and heading for churches in Scotland and Northern England. From there we are assuming that messages are reaching Witch Consul Riddle in _our world_ , then orders coming back the other way. But your guess is as good as mine on how that works.”

“And what about Lyra? Has she made any progress?”

Lyra seemed to bulge her eyes angrily, as Sirius looked at her.

“If we risk letting her speak, do you think she will have anything interesting to say?” Sirius asked.

“Define interesting,” Mal quirked. “What _I_ may find interesting you may react to quite differently. But I’m not the wizard around here. I have no power in this decision.”

Sirius took a heaving breath. “Dumbledore … let her speak.”

Well … if he did …

“Pig! Swine! Gutter filth philandering _bastard_!”

Lyra hurled abuse as though a dam had burst. Sirius absorbed the tirade as best he could, including the cutting slights on his manhood and bedroom performance. Lily nodded in womanly solidarity, while James choked and tried to prevent his ribs from cracking as he held in a volley of laughter. He didn’t want Lyra to turn her sharp tongue on _him_ for misinterpreting the source of his mirth.

“Are you done?” Sirius asked, red-faced as Lyra stopped to draw breath.

“Not by _half_ , Black!” Lyra hissed angrily. “Not by half! And you just _wait_ till I can move again! Then you’ll have it. Oi! Pan! What are you doing just sat there!? Do something _useful_. Peck his bleeding eyes out, or something!”

Pan turned his amber eyes on Lyra and said, in a weary tone, “Sirius’ dæmon was always respectful to me. Don’t drag me into your petty little revenge quest. You know it’s all fake, anyway.”

“Excuse me! It is _not_ fake!”

“Do you really want to get into this? In front of everyone?”

Lyra huffed, panted crossly, then howled like a caged puma. “Argh, Pan! You really annoy me sometimes!”

“Good, at least you get a taste of your own medicine,” Pan replied calmly. “Now just tell these people what we found out about Mary and, more importantly … about _Will.”_

* * *

“So, he’s going to move the Mirror. Where to, do you think?”

Harry opened his mouth wide, but Hermione’s aim wasn’t improving, and the flavour of that _particular_ Every-Flavour Bean would have to remain unknown for now. Unless, of course, Papageno or Hedwig could work out what it was, depending on which one snapped it up from the floor first.

“I think the bigger question is why such a mirror would be here in the first place,” Hermione countered, chewing thoughtfully as Harry landed his third successful Bean into her waiting mouth. She was quite cross that he was so good at this, but pacified by the flavour of the Bean. “Banoffee. Yummy. Banana sweets are some of my favourite.”

Harry filed _that_ key bit of information away for later. It might be a useful addition to his Christmas present ideas list.

“What are you thinking? About the Mirror, I mean?”

“Well, think about it,” Hermione began. “Dumbledore said men have wasted away in front of the Mirror, meaning it must be fairly well known and sought after. So why is it here, at Hogwarts?”

“You think Dumbledore must have it for an important reason?” Harry mused, then his eyes went wide. “Ooh … do you think it has something to do with the Philosopher’s Stone?”

“It makes sense,” Hermione replied. “Protecting the Stone must be the priority in Dumbledore’s life right now. If it could enable Tom Riddle to return to power, all Dumbledore’s thought must be bent on preventing that. And then a rare and unique artefact like the Mirror of Erised just happens to arrive at Hogwarts? Now, of all times? It’s too much of a coincidence for me.”

“But how could a Mirror help protect the Stone? It’s just a mirror that … um … shows the true desire of someone’s heart …”

On reflex, both Harry and Hermione suddenly became deeply interested in other things. Hermione was choosing what she hoped would be the most disgusting flavour of Bean to throw at Harry next, while he became very intrigued by the worn nature of the armrest of his seat, fingering a loose thread until the awkward moment had passed.

For neither had looked the reality of their shared Erised vision in the face, either separately or together, so monumental a minefield was _that_ to navigate. But they had developed an unspoken agreement not to mention it to each other, for now at least.

“That’s exactly why it could be a useful tool,” Hermione argued. “If someone wanted to _use_ the Stone, they could see themselves doing that. But maybe they wouldn’t see how to _find_ it, so the Stone would be kept safe as long as the thief was distracted by the vision.”

“And maybe Dumbledore has set up some kind of surveillance, to see what other people see in the Mirror,” Harry added eagerly. “Like he did with us. Then he could see who the traitor was. But that would mean …”

“- that the traitor is _already here_ ,” Hermione finished for him, allowing an icy chill to flow from her to Harry via her dark proclamation. “But who?”

“My money’s on Snape,” Harry announced confidently. “He seems the type.”

“Too obvious, plus he works _for_ Dumbledore,” Hermione disagreed. “We’ve both seen that, at Halloween and Quidditch.”

“You think he suspected _Quirrell?_ ” Harry asked incredulously. “That stuttering fool is too much of a weakling to be a traitor.”

“I agree, plus if Snape interrogated him he must have passed,” Hermione replied. “I don’t think Quirrell would have survived if Snape had questioned him strongly enough. He’s far too weedy. But he’s still here, so I think we can rule him out.”

“Who else then?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione frowned. “No-one else is an obvious candidate. But I wonder what else is guarding the Stone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we know that Hagrid gave Fluffy to Dumbledore to protect the Stone,” Hermione reminded him. “And there’s an enchanted trap door that not even the Weasley twins have been able to open. If the Mirror is involved too, I bet it isn’t the end of the protections.”

“You think there are more?” Harry asked, pondering the possibility himself. “Like a slew of enchantments? Maybe some of the Professors did things. They are all quite powerful.”

“That sounds likely,” Hermione nodded keenly. “I wonder which ones? Who would Dumbledore trust enough with such a task?”

“My Aunt Minerva, definitely,” Harry proffered. “And probably Snape, who he seems to like. I wonder what they did. Powerful spells, probably, or something like that. You know, I think there must be more to this Stone than we know. Something unique. I wonder what it could be.”

“Well they certainly seem to want to keep it away from Witch-Consul Riddle,” Hermione mused. “That might mean it is unique to _him_. He cant want it to make gold, and he didn’t seem sick when I met him, so the Elixir of Life wouldn’t be much use either.”

Then Harry’s face fell. “But you _did_ say he didn’t have magic anymore. Hermione, maybe _that’s_ it! Somehow, in some way that Philosopher’s Stones aren’t regularly used for, maybe Tom Riddle can use it to _get his magic back_!”

“Heaven forbid!” Hermione cried, sucking in a breath. “I hope not, Harry! I’ve done some reading, about what it was like when he was all-powerful before. It was a terrible world, it really was. It was just awful! Oh, Harry! We can’t allow it! We cant allow him to get it back, we can’t allow him to _come back_! Not ever.”

“But what can we do?” Harry asked, shivering at Hermione’s slightly desperate tone. He was on edge, a ball of potential energy … energy he wanted to channel to one purpose - _protecting_ Hermione. It was all he could focus on.

“We … we can find it _first_ ,” Hermione whispered. “Then we can destroy it! Stop Riddle from ever getting his hands on it!”

Harry felt the call of adventure stir in him, but it was tempered by something else. “But Hermione, if we do this, destroy the Stone, we would be condemning Nicolas Flamel to _death_. He’d die without the Elixir of Life.”

“He’s six hundred and fifty years old! He’s lived long enough,” Hermione sniped back firmly. “It’s _unnatural_ to live that long. And he is now a conduit for evil to thrive again. I’m sure he wouldn’t want that. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, Harry.”

“Or the one,” he agreed. “Okay, let’s do it. Let’s find the Stone first. But, where to start?”

“Hagrid,” Hermione announced.

“Hagrid? Why him?”

“He’s part of the protections, he’ll know what else we’re facing,” Hermione explained. “But he’s also the weak link. I like Hagrid, but he’s easier to play than a harp from hell. Flatter him enough and he’ll tell us anything.”

“And, Hermione,” Harry began darkly. “If he’ll tell _us_ anything …”

“- he’ll tell others too!” she completed. “Oh, Harry! We have to move fast.”

“Let’s just hope no-one ever learns that all he wants in his life is a dragon,” Harry added grimly. “He’ll spill every bean for _that_ prize. Speaking of _beans_ , it’s your throw.”

This time Harry used his Quidditch reflexes to catch the errant sweet, which was on a trajectory to fly over his head and into the fire. He ate slowly as he considered his next question, one he was practically terrified of asking, but one he couldn’t put off much longer.

“So, are you looking forward to going home in a couple of weeks?” he asked slowly. “You must be missing Lyra.”

“Yes, I am looking forward to seeing her,” Hermione confirmed. “And Mal, too. I hope they are both okay. You must be excited, to see you parents and Godfather again.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Harry returned, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “Um, Hermione? Would you mind - and you can say no if you don’t want to - I mean … can I can write to you over the Christmas Holidays? We wont see each other for almost a month and I’d like to stay in touch, if you don’t mind, I mean.”

Hermione blushed prettily, trying to control the cartwheels her insides were doing. She decided to be playful.

“Alright, you can write to me,” she grinned. “But only on one condition.”

“Name it,” Harry blurted out eagerly.

“That I can write back!” Hermione teased. “They are my terms!”

“I accept!” Harry laughed. “You’ll have to write your address down for me. Besides, I need to know where to send your Christmas present.”

“You don’t have to get me anything, Harry,” Hermione flushed. “And please don’t spend a lot of money if you do.”

“I spend my money as I choose, thank you very much,” Harry retorted. “Besides, I never had a friend at Christmas to buy a present for before, so if I want to get you something just be a graceful recipient and let me. Please?”

“Okay. Thank you, Harry,” Hermione gushed warmly.

“And I hope you’re getting _me_ , something!” Harry funned. “I’m quite looking forward to opening it!”

“Oh, I have your present in mind,” Hermione informed him cryptically. “And no, I’m not going to tell you what it is. So stop asking!”

“First-years should have been in bed half an hour ago!” the cross voice of Percy Weasley suddenly chimed from the shadows of the Prefects Dormitory staircase. “Get upstairs this instant, or it will be five points from Gryffindor for the both of you!”

“You’d take points from your own House?” Harry asked, as Hermione hastily packed away their homework from earlier.

“Mr Potter, I take points from my own _brothers_ ,” Percy snapped back. “You are not any more exempt from the rules than they are. Now get to bed!”

And with another little frightened squeak from Hermione, they did just that.


	16. The Ghosts of Christmas Past

The Hogwarts Express finally puffed out her brakes with a billow of smoke and the satisfying grind of steel-on-steel, as the scarlet locomotive slowed for the gentle trundle into the private, hidden platform of Kings Cross Station. Right now, hundreds of excited students were waiting to greet their equally fervoured parents, swapping last minute stories of holiday plans, and Christmas present hopes, all trying to outdo their fellows in terms of stirring expectations for the near month away from school.

For Harry, it was something of a bittersweet feeling that filled him up as the train idled on it’s way into the station. He was keen to see his parents again, spend a few weeks with them and Sirius. He was really looking forward to telling them all about his first term at Hogwarts. Even Minerva’s threat of extra homework for him hadn’t dampened his enthusiasm for the festive period.

But there was something niggling at the corners of his mind. It was a curious little sensation, like he’d left something back at Hogwarts that he’d sorely miss, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it might be. He’d packed his travel bag carefully, made certain to bring his wand and the Invisibility Cloak home with him. He didn’t need to bring magical toys, like Wizards Chess and Gobstones, as he had his own sets back in London.

So just what _was_ he going to regret being without for the next month?

Harry decided to try and put it from his mind, hope that maybe it would spring on him if he wasn’t trying so hard to pin it down, like it was some playful, elusive spirit. He focused on Hermione instead, which was always a pleasant pastime, as she gathered her scattered belongings from around the compartment they’d had to themselves for the entire journey home.

“Are you looking forward to seeing your parents again?” Harry asked breezily, noticing Hermione poking her tongue out in that cute way she always did when she was concentrating, as she tied her shoelaces into neat, even bows.

She picked at her fingernails and avoided Harry’s eye. “I’m not going to see my parents, remember?”

Harry’s face fell. “Oh, yeah. Hermione - I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

“You did, but it’s okay,” Hermione smiled weakly. “I know what you really meant.”

Then a realisation hit Harry, hit him hard in the gut. And he felt the worst kind of insensitive wart just then.

“You miss them, don’t you?” he asked gently, ashamed of his denseness. “Your _real_ parents, I mean?”

Hermione kept her eyes pinned to her lap. “Wouldn’t you, if you were me?”

Of course he would, but Harry had been too busy revelling in the excitement of seeing his own parents again to spare a feeling for his best friend being so far removed from hers. He felt a sorry excuse for his half of that relationship just now.

“And, I suppose, everyone being so high-spirited must have just made things worse for you?” Harry offered quietly. “Knowing you _wouldn’t_ be seeing your family this Christmas?”

Hermione nodded briefly again.

“And here’s me, being a total arse-donkey about the whole thing,” Harry moaned miserably. “Going on about how I’m going to _thrash_ my Dad at chess and battleships, and telling my Mum all about my adventures at school so far … and about decorating my Godfather in tinsel, when he passes out from too much Firewhiskey. I’m sorry, Hermione. I’ve been so thoughtless.”

Hermione gave him a comforting half-grin. “It’s okay. It had to happen sometime. You’d be abnormal to be so considerate _all_ of the time!”

“It is _not_ okay,” Harry huffed. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. After the holidays, I’ll be extra nice to you. I don’t know how, but I’ll think of something. There’ll probably be a lot of bribery involved! I have a whole month to think about it! Four _entire_ weeks … twenty-eight days …”

And there it was.

Harry realised, with a shuddering jolt, just what it was that he would miss from Hogwarts. His voice tailed off as the understanding settled like sludge on his heart, and he felt yet more miserable still, even more than he had for not caring enough about Hermione being separated from her parents by an entire _plane of existence!_

“I-is there no way you can contact them?” Harry asked, his voice a sad but oddly high-octave tone. “Just to say _Merry Christmas_?”

Hermione shook her head. “I don’t see how. It took months to reach here from my world. It would take weeks just to get back to the portal in the far North, let alone the rest of it. That’s not to mention all the dangers lurking out there. No, this Christmas I’m going to just have to do without Mum and Dad.”

Hermione picked at one of her curliest strands of hair and gazed out of the window with a flat, rueful little shrug. Harry felt the strongest urge to do _something_ , but he had no idea _what_. So he just stayed still and waited until he thought Hermione’s moment of melancholy had passed.

“It’s funny, really, that you even _have_ Christmas there,” Harry mused after an awkward minute or two.

“The religion crosses the boundaries of worlds,” Hermione explained. “Lyra told me once that she was involved in a massive war, one that tried to _kill God_. The Christian religion crosses into _at least_ our two worlds, though it is much more powerful and controlling in mine. They are really scary there.”

Harry shifted awkwardly. He didn’t like the idea of Hermione being afraid of _anything_ , but this subject clearly stirred frightful memories for her.

“Which world do you prefer, then?” Harry asked. “You’ve never said.”

“This one, I think,” Hermione replied quickly, glancing up at Harry as her cheeks tinted pink. Harry felt something move in his chest at the look Hermione was giving him and the train compartment felt awfully hot all of a sudden. It was like a freak, unseasonal heatwave had abruptly struck him. “But I’d like my parents to be here with me, even though I know that’s not possible. It’s just because it’s this time of the year, a time for families, you know? I’d like to be going home to mine, like everyone else, but I’ll be alright. I like Lyra and Mal very much … but it’s not the same.”

“No, I can see how it wouldn’t be,” Harry nodded sagely. “I wish I could help.”

“You can,” Hermione chirped brightly. “You can write to me, like you promised. I may not have my real family, but at least I have my real _best friend_. That will be enough for me. So don’t let me down!”

Just then the train came to a complete stop. Harry got up very slowly, as though trying to eek out these final few minutes with Hermione. A part of his brain was telling him that this was really quite stupid, that he’d see her again soon enough and that he should stop being so peculiar about the whole thing in the first place.

Then there was another part of his brain that was telling the first part to shut up and keep its opinions to itself. It was all very confusing.

There was some heaving of bags and jostling with the clamour of students clambering to disembark, during which time Hermione got buffeted into Harry’s chest on more than one occasion, sending some dormant butterflies to flight in his stomach - that Harry didn’t remember swallowing at all - and then they were on the platform.

Harry watched as Draco Malfoy was engulfed by his haughty mother and father - who seemed to be having a _Who-Can-Grow-The-Longest/Blondest-Hair_ contest - and as Ron Weasley was clobbered in a one-handed bear hug by his mother. She had a half-eaten sausage roll in the other hand. Harry idly wondered if she’d caught up with Sirius yet, and _truly_ hoped she hadn’t sent any more _personal mail_ to their flat in London …

“So how are you getting home?” Hermione asked, as they joined the queue to head back through the magical barrier to Kings Cross.

“Tube, probably, that's how me and Sirius came up here in September,” Harry babbled happily. “The Victoria Line goes right to the Embankment. Our flat isn’t far from the Underground station there.”

“Funny. That’s where _Lyra’s_ flat was,” Hermione mentioned curiously. “In _our London_ , you know.”

Harry suddenly pricked his ears up a bit. “Then … you know the area?”

“A little. I mean, London looks pretty much the same in _any_ world, I imagine.”

“Mmm,” Harry agreed. “So if, say, Lyra brought you Christmas shopping or something, you’d know where Westminster Bridge was?”

“Oh, I already know where _that_ is,” Hermione chimed brightly. “Who doesn’t? Why does that matter, though?”

“Oh it doesn’t, it doesn’t,” Harry blurted out quickly, though his mind was racing a mile-a-minute at the possibilities this new bit of knowledge threw up. “Just asking, that’s all.”

“Come on _not-lovebirds_ ,” Neville teased from behind them. “You’re holding up the line!”

“Shut up, Neville!” Harry retorted, blushing furiously.

But he was right, so Hermione - who was grinning to herself about something - pushed through the barrier and out of sight. Harry hurried through in her wake.

“It’s the cold, that’s all,” Harry frowned as he met up with Sirius on the other side, who immediately asked why Harry was so red in the face.

“If you say so,” Sirius replied, unconvinced. “Anyway, I brought some stragglers for the journey home. Hope you don’t mind.”

Harry looked over Sirius’ shoulder … and immediately his face cracked into the broadest grin.

“Mum! Dad!” Harry cried, before being transferred from one embrace to the other. “What are you doing out here? You’ll be seen … _again!”_

“I think our Secrecy Ship has sailed!” James chuckled. He nodded at some hidden _Daily Prophet_ cameramen lurking behind an advertising hoarding just to their left. “Besides, we wear enough disguises for our work. I’ve had my fill of sticking fake beards on! I’ll be mistaken for Father Christmas at this rate!”

“So, tell us about your term,” Lily took over, drawing Harry to her side.

“Oh, there’ll be plenty of time for all that,” Sirius cut in brusquely. “I want to get away from here quick, before this magical _cold_ Harry was telling me about follows him through the barrier and freezes us all!”

Sirius exchanged a twinkling smirk with James, and nodded over to where Hermione was being greeted by Lyra and Mal nearby.

“Dont you want to say goodbye?” James teased, as Harry scowled at the silliness of the men in his life.

Actually, Harry _didn’t_ want to say goodbye to Hermione. On a list of Things Harry Didn’t Want To Do, it was pretty much numbers one, two and three.

“We already did that on the platform,” Harry huffed back. “Come on. Let’s get going. I want to get started on my advent calender chocolates!”

Harry cast one last look at Hermione, who gave him a meek little wave as she caught his eye. He returned it and watched as Lyra guided her away from the station and into Mal’s waiting car. Harry followed the silver Mondeo until it was just a dot in the snaking queue of traffic.

Then they were gone from sight completely. Harry sighed and felt the loss. It was a whole new kind of unhappiness … but at least they hadn’t said goodbye.

* * *

“Now, just relax your mind, focus on the energies in front of you. When one sticks out, just follow it.”

Harry frowned. The blindfold stretched tight across his forehead was starting to get itchy. And how was he supposed to perform this task his mother was setting him? Feel energies? Follow them? It sounded like wishy-washy nonsense and not at all like the magic they’d been learning at Hogwarts.

Harry didn’t think Hermione would approve of this at all. It was a bit too much like fortune-telling, and that was a very imprecise branch of magic she’d told him once.

“I can’t do this, Mum,” Harry moaned. “I cant feel anything, apart from this scratchy cloth over my eyes.”

“You aren’t trying hard enough,” Lily told him sternly. “I can hear your mind whirring away, _complaining_ about this.”

“You can? I didn’t know you were psychic, Mum.”

“Dont be flippant,” Lily returned. “If you don’t get this right, that Christmas Eve calender door stays firmly _shut_. And it has the best chocolate yet. Liquid caramel centred. Delicious.”

That _did_ sound good. Harry’s sweet tooth implored him to concentrate that little bit more. So he huffed in another deep breath like his mother had told him, and primed his mind on that one thought, blocking all others out. After a few more breaths Harry felt his mind go still, almost numb, as if floating around in his skull. He thought about caramel, the golden nectar flowing around his mouth.

Then, bizarrely, an idea of _Hermione_ came to him. He often thought of her voice as a little bit like nectar. He liked listening to her talk, and it didn’t much matter what it was about. It could have been when they were wondering if Pince the Librarian and Filch the Caretaker were having a secret, abominable love affair; or when Hermione was making terrible jokey observations about how Professor Flitwick’s ugly goblin mother must have seduced his wizard father; or when she was simply reciting the correct brewing schedule and ingredients for a Blackhead Banishing Potion. There was just something flowing and lyrical about her tone that threatened to render Harry inert if he relaxed into the sound too much.

“That’s it!” Lily whispered eagerly. “Follow that energy. Let it guide your wand.”

So Harry did. Weirdly, his wand wanted to go a little bit to the right. Why there, who could tell? Harry certainly didn’t, but he obeyed the instinct just the same. His wand was drawn like a magnet to a very specific spot. The pull was intensely strong at this point.

“Now, picture the energy in your mind,” Minerva whispered from behind Harry. “And draw what you see into the clay before you.”

Harry didn’t see the energy. Or _did_ he? There was something … more like a couple of slashes or marks. It wasn’t a _picture_ as such, but it was something.

So he drew. One long, vertical line, then another, cutting down at an angle from left to right. Harry opened his eyes.

“Which rune is that?” Lily quizzed.

“Nauthiz,” Harry answered correctly, looking over at the rune stones arranged to his right. The _new_ set he'd received from Hermione as a Christmas present. “It means need and necessity, but also absence and restriction.”

“And to have patience,” James grinned knowingly from over near the fireplace. “No need to guess why you drew _that_ particular rune!”

“James, don’t tease,” Lily shot warningly. Harry was thankful for his mother’s diligence in looking after him, for he was growing very cross at the continual asides from his father regarding Harry’s ‘absent friend’. It was getting a very tiresome line of taunting.

Lily, at least, seemed less interested in talking about Hermione Granger at all hours of the day. In fact, it was almost as if she wanted to actively avoid the subject.

But this was one time when Lily decided to make an exception to that rule.

“Were you, Harry? Were you thinking about Hermione?”

Harry blushed. He didn’t want to confess that he _had_ , and that he’d been comparing her to sweet honey nectar, either. It didn’t seem the kind of thing a boy told to his mother.

But he couldn’t lie to her, not when she was looking at him so intently. So he merely nodded. “I was just wondering how she is. Christmas is going to be quite lonely for her. She misses her parents, you know.”

“I bet she does, poor lamb,” Sirius chipped in from over by the kitchen, where he was preparing a festive cocktail for himself. “If only we hadn’t destroyed the Veil Arch at the Ministry … I might have been able to take her home for a day or so. Perhaps the portal still works, without the arch. I could ask around.”

“No! Don’t!” Harry cried animatedly. “Hermione said there are all sorts of dangers waiting in that world for her. It’s not safe to go back there just now.”

“She told you that?” Sirius queried. “What did she say, exactly?”

“Oh, nothing specific,” Harry replied. “Just that the Church are really powerful there. And they persecute the occult, and people who practise it. I’m sure a child-witch would be a ripe target for those people. No, she’s safer here. Leave her be, please?”

“Alright, Harry,” Sirius promised faithfully. “But if the Magisterium are really that interested in her, we need to take precautions here, too.”

Harry felt a sort of cold dread fall onto his shoulders. “Here? How can they be here?”

The adults in the room all exchanged dark looks. Harry scowled as he interpreted the loaded meanings passing between them.

“You _know_?” Harry hissed at his father. “About _that_ world? About the dangers it poses to _Hermione_?”

James nodded firmly. “From what Sirius told us about it,” he explained. “We’ve been trying to get up to speed.”

“And Lyra and Malcolm have been helping us,” Lily added bluntly. “We’ve met them several times now.”

Harry gasped aloud. “You’ve _met_ Hermione’s guardians? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We didn’t want to distract you from your studies,” Lily answered plainly. “Or Hermione from hers. You two seem joined at the hip enough as it is. This is something for us adults to deal with, not for you to worry about.”

“My best friend is in danger!” Harry shrieked. “Of _course_ I’m going to worry about it! But I might not have worried so much if I knew you were taking care of it.”

“We are taking care of it,” James assured him.

“And Lyra is helping us,” Sirius added. “As soon as we convinced her not to garotte me on sight, she came right around!”

Harry was disarmed by Sirius’ jokey expression. He was a sucker for it.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, let’s just say that Lyra and I have a … well … _interesting_ past.”

Harry blinked as he tried to absorb that. “You … _know_ Lyra?”

Sirius grinned down at him. “I do. Quite _intimately,_ actually. Or her intimate _parts,_ at least.”

“Eww, minging!” Harry retorted, heaving at the notion. “But how? And I mean, how did you meet her? Keep your sordid stories to yourself.”

“When I followed Tom Riddle into that world,” Sirius explained, sitting and crossing one knee over the other. “I was injured and a witch-clan took me in, nursed me to health. But I was there so long that my own dæmon started to fight to get out of me. To become like Papageno is to Hermione. It was quite a breathtakingly uncomfortable process. But witches in that world do it all the time.

“What they needed was a human who could understand me better. Luckily, Lyra is a famous personality in that world. She’d _Separated_ from her dæmon - meaning they can go great distances from each other. Normally a human and dæmon cant go more than a few feet from each other before it becomes excruciatingly painful for both.

“So Lyra came to meet me, then agreed to show me around her world, for I was fascinated by it and in no hurry to return home. Besides, Lyra Belacqua is a beautiful and passionate woman, and we shared an instant attraction to explore that passion.”

“Sirius, tread carefully,” Lily warned.

“Sorry, Lil,” Sirius grinned at her. “Anyway, Lyra and I were lovers for the several years I stayed in that world. Then she helped me when I decided to return home.”

“What your Godfather is _not_ telling you,” Lily went on with a frown. “Is that he is a despicable sort of charlatan, who had a string of intimate liaisons with _other_ women -”

“- and witches. Don’t forget the witches,” Sirius grinned, tilting his glass at Lily in a sort of salute, which she didn’t appreciate - if her frown was any indication.

“- all while still in a relationship with Lyra.”

“You didn’t!” Harry gasped in shock.

“Guilty as charged,” Sirius answered in defeat.

“No wonder she’s mad at you,” Harry mused. “And she looked quite fierce.”

“Oh she is, she’s like a wildcat that one,” Sirius nodded, winking at James. “But what your Mum is leaving out of this character assassination is that Lyra was just as bad as me, and I _knew_ she was up to no good! She just didn’t like that I could give as good as she did in that department!”

Harry smirked in spite of himself. “What was it like when she met you again? I wish I’d seen it.”

“It was an epic spectacle,” Sirius agreed with a beaming grin. “She might have eaten me alive if it wasn’t for Dumbledore casting a spell at her!”

“Oh dear! She cant have liked that.”

“No, she didn’t,” Sirius confirmed. “But it was _probably_ because the last time Petrificus Totalus was used on her it was for a _very different_ reason … one she made me do again when we met up a few days later. Poor Pan … the sights that little creature has been forced to see …”

“Pan?

“Pantalaimon,” Sirius explained. “ _Lyra’s_ dæmon. Poor little bloke.”

Then a thought occurred to Harry. “So, when you were _intimate_ with Lyra … did you _touch_ Pantalaimon?”

Sirius smiled secretly, understanding immediately what Harry was getting at. “Only once, when I didn’t know how forbidden it was, how taboo. Lyra never lets anyone that close to her. Touching Pan was strictly out of the question.”

“Oh…” Harry hushed, his eyes wide as his gulping throat. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what that meant … about the way he and _Papageno_ were so familiar … about why Hermione not only permitted it, but _liked it_.

Harry didn’t understand it at all … but right at that moment he wondered what it would be like for Hermione to touch _his_ dæmon, whatever form it might be. He rather thought he might like her to, just to see what it felt like. It would be nice, he thought. It didn’t make sense to him that it _wouldn’t,_ but he’d still like to try it, just to see.

“So, that’s how Sirius knows Lyra,” Lily went on, dragging the conversation back around. “But back to the rest of the situation, yes we’ve met her and Malcolm, Hermione’s other guardian. And they’ve been investigating just how deeply the forces from their world are entrenched here.”

“And it seems they have roots here quite as deep as in their own world,” James went on.

“How so?” asked Harry. “And how are they threatening Hermione?”

“Lyra and her alethiometer aren’t the only ones who know about the connection you and Hermione share,” Sirius continued.

“Alethiometer?”

“A truth reader,” Sirius clarified. “That was the device that told Hermione she needed to come here to find and help you. But the Magisterium has them too, and Tom Riddle was told about what Hermione was trying to do.”

“But why? Why would such a device help someone like Riddle?” Harry fumed.

“The truth is impartial, Harry,” James took over. “Riddle was always likely to try and return if he survived. And the prophecy that predicted his downfall is still valid. The truth reader just told him what he wanted to know, no matter how angry it might have made him to hear.”

“And he is even more likely than ever to believe that _you_ will be the one to vanquish him,” Sirius told him seriously. “He considers you a mortal enemy at this point. One who possesses a power that he has never encountered before and doesn’t understand … one that _Hermione_ seems to have the ability to cultivate in you. She is the one with the _real_ power … because it will ignite whatever it is inside _you_.”

“So, as long as she is around to improve you … “ James finished for Sirius.

“Riddle will try and target her,” Harry understood darkly. He looked stolidly at each of them in turn. “Tell me what I have to do.”

“Concentrate,” Lily replied gently, but determinedly. “Let the power of the runes flow through you, infuse you. This is an ancient form of magic, one deeply rooted and powerful. It might come in handy when you need it the most.”

Harry drew his wand and closed his eyes. He would master this if it took all the strength he had.

* * *

Mal was cooking on Christmas morning. Hermione was woken by the delicious wafting smell of sizzling bacon, the popping of juicy sausages and the clinking of glass as Lyra and Mal hit the cream liqueur before Hermione was even out of bed. She just lay there awhile and listened to the sounds and smelled the smells, all as she was curled up in her fluffy quilt with her favourite Christmas present bundled between her arms.

Harry’s Christmas card. Nothing else came close.

It was brief and sweet. A simple snowy scene, magically set to motion, with just a few lines in Harry’s neat script inside.

_Merry Christmas. Hope you have a great day! Looking forward to January the Third. See you on the Express. From Harry._

It wasn’t a declaration of his undying affection, or wishing they could be together for Christmas, but somehow Hermione saw those sentiments between Harry’s lines, from within his actions. For he’d written to her NINE times so far, sometimes not even waiting for a reply before Hedwig turned up again at Hermione’s window clutching a scroll and barking for owl treats, which Hermione quickly learned simply _had_ to be the gourmet variety if she didn’t want a sharp nip on her fingers.

And Hermione had started to become anxious and impatient as she waited for the latest delivery of _Harry Post_. It was all Lyra’s fault, Hermione had decided, for insisting on late nights of girly pillow talk. She wanted Hermione to go over every detail of every conversation that Hermione and Harry had ever had, to deconstruct them for hidden meanings. And each time Lyra had become more and more playful, declaring that Harry was putty in Hermione’s hands already.

And when it came to describing Harry racing bravely to rescue her from the twelve-foot troll, well … even _Pantalaimon_ swooned at that!

So from that moment on, Harry was in love with Hermione, and Lyra would listen to none of Hermione’s sage, sane counter-arguments to the discussion. But with each flimsy denial, Hermione let herself believe it a tiny bit more. So much more that by the time Harry’s Christmas card arrived Hermione tore it open with such reckless eagerness that she almost ripped the card itself in half.

And in her fear that she had, she took a moment to take stock of everything, to analyse what she was feeling. It wasn’t a sensation she had known before, and it didn’t feel like the childish things she knew well. It _felt_ like a grown-up emotion. Something entirely different and a little bit scary, but at the same time insanely comforting and lovely.

A bit like Harry, really.

So she let herself accept it into her being. That she had a monumental crush on her best friend, the friend she was destined to love. Or was it love already, despite how young she still was? She wasn’t so sure about that … at least not until Pap came up to her solemnly one night and all but confirmed it.

“I cant do it anymore, Hermione. It’s gone.”

“What has?” she asked in concern, for Pap seemed quite distraught.

“I cant _change_ anymore. This is it … this is what I am. I _am_ Crookshanks! I am a cat.”

Hermione grinned at him. “And the fluffiest, prettiest cat you are too!”

And with that she gave him a crunching hug.

“But what does this mean? About _us?"_ Papageno asked in a fraught voice.

“It means that you’ll just have to let Harry keep smoothing you now!” Hermione teased with a chuckle.

“You _like_ that far too much, you know,” Pap quirked back. “I should have mentioned it before now. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“ _I_ should be!” Hermione laughed. “What about _you_? Jumping into his lap and rubbing up against his legs every five minutes. It’s positively brazen!”

“Perhaps," Pap returned haughtily. "But you’re just jealous that you _cant_!”

“I am not!” Hermione protested hotly. “Okay, maybe just a little. But he’s so maddeningly _warm._ I wouldn’t have expected him to be. What’s _that_ all about?”

“Lyra would say he’s _hot for you_ , or some other such gutter nonsense,” Pap considered wisely.

“Are you saying he’s _not_?” Hermione asked, honestly a little hurt by the notion.

“Hermione - he’s _eleven!_ ” Pap reminded her. “I don’t think he even knows _how_ to be hot for something.”

“But _we_ do … don’t we?” Hermione asked, cripplingly shy all of a sudden.

“Yes, I think we’re _starting_ to,” Pap nodded. “It’s very strange, isn’t it?”

“Very,” Hermione nodded vigorously. “But sort of _nice_ too.”

“And exciting.”

“Oh _definitely_ exciting!” Hermione agreed vehemently. “Do you think Harry will _ever_ feel like that about us?”

Hermione blinked her eyes in hope. Pap returned her expression exactly.

“Yes, I think he will. He likes us ever so much. More than he ever is able to say, though sometimes I think he wants to.”

“He just doesn’t know the right words yet,” Hermione nodded in understanding. “I know what you mean. He sort of _half-says_ things. It’s really quite cute, I think.”

“You think _everything_ about him is cute.”

“Well, yes, I really do,” Hermione smiled to herself. “I wonder what he thinks about _my_ looks.”

“Look at you, getting all vain,” Pap quirked with a laugh. “Who would ever have thought it? Hermione Granger … hoping a boy thinks she’s _pretty_.”

Hermione flushed at the light teasing, but she fixed Papageno with a serious stare. “Well … do you think he _does_?”

As a dæmon, Papageno knew that there was a time to fun with his human and a time to build them up. This was not a time to play.

“Of _course_ he does,” Pap told her confidently. “He’s said so lots of times. And then there’s the way he looks at you when he thinks you aren’t paying attention to him.”

“But I’m _always_ paying attention to him,” Hermione replied, confused. “Don’t I pay him enough attention? And what do you mean _the way he looks at me_? What way?”

“Like you are the very centre of his world,” Pap explained simply, causing Hermione to blush to the roots of her hair. “I don’t think he knows he’s looking at you like that - or for how long he does it or what it means - but I see it all the time. He can barely take his eyes off you, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he looks away.”

Hermione was far too embarrassed by that to continue the conversation. But she barely slept until Harry’s next delivery arrived. The card Hermione hadn’t let out of her sight and the rather large gift, that was beautifully wrapped in gold and purple paper, that Hermione couldn’t wait to open on Christmas morning.

Then she remembered that morning was _this_ morning …

Hermione leapt out of bed like warm bread from a toaster. She startled poor Pap, who had been cosily nuzzled up at her feet. The cat dæmon hissed and spat at Hermione, but she didn’t even spare him an apology as she thundered into the living room and to the large decorated fir in the corner.

“Morning!” she called brightly as she skidded to a halt. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,“ Mal returned. “Just in time for breakfast. We were starting to think you might never get up!”

“I’m on holiday and it’s _Christmas_ ,” Hermione replied, wrinkling her nose cheekily. “I’m _allowed_ a lie-in if I want one!”

“You tell him, Hermione,” Lyra chimed supportively. “We girls need our sleep to face the world with a straight face!”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Mal frowned, piling bacon and sausages onto a plate as eggs were added to a sizzling frying pan.

“Now I wonder which present Hermione will go for first, Mal?” Lyra quipped lightly. “Ten pounds says it isn’t _mine_.”

“Or mine,” Mal smirked back. “Or the one from that boy, Neville.”

“ _Neville_ sent me a Christmas present?” Hermione blurted. “That was nice of him.”

“Maybe he has a crush on you,” Lyra teased. “A bit of competition, maybe.”

Hermione scowled at Lyra, poking her tongue at her Mistress. “Hush, you.”

“So, come on then, Hermione, get Harry’s present open,” Mal told her with a sigh. “The suspense is _killing_ us!”

Hermione beamed at the invitation and hastily tore off the wrapping paper. Then she burst into a peel of laughter. For there, inside, was a sleek black case with the words _Broomstick Servicing Kit_ stamped in silver lettering. Next to that there was badge and framed certificate that marked Hermione joining the Seven Foot High-Fliers Club, a feat she’d achieved on their last day of school.

There was also a little note.

_Merry Christmas, Hermione._

_I hope you like your present and see the funny side of it. I couldn’t resist as soon as I saw it. The Kit is actually really good and I’m sure you’ll get some actual use from it, maybe even learn to fly ‘properly’ one day! When you do, I’ll buy you your own racing broom!_

_The badge was my idea and it works like a compass. As you are my ‘guide on this long journey’ (you know what I mean) I thought it might be handy to keep us heading in the right direction._

_Hope you have a great Christmas and eat lots of sweets and cake and get all the presents you wanted. You deserve them._

_See you soon._

_From Harry_

Hermione could barely keep her thoughts steady in her wobbly head as she read and read Harry’s words. A guide on a _long journey_. What did he mean by that? Well, Hermione knew what he meant, but what if he _really_ meant something else? The _other journey_ she was hoping he might want to go on with her. It stirred the wildest thoughts in her mind as she tried to process them all at once.

But as she went to ask Lyra about it there was a knock on the door.

Lyra looked up suspiciously. “Are you expecting anyone?”

“No,” Mal returned seriously, reaching for his pistol from inside a drawer in the kitchen. He crossed to the door and peered through the spyhole he’d installed. Then he slid the gun into the belt of his trousers and hid it with his shirt. He turned back to the others with a wry grin. “We have guests.”

Then Mal opened the door. Hermione blinked hard, and her heart did a great leap, as she clocked the visitors crossing the threshold.

“Harry?” Hermione blurted, as though unable to believe she was looking at the boy who had just sent her insides to tremulous flutters. She was still holding the little note in her shaky hands.

“Sirius! James … Lily,” Lyra exclaimed, getting up and greeting the arrivals. “What are you doing here? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Lyra, be calm,” Sirius cajoled her. “Pan, be a good dæmon and reign your human in, will you? We were just about to settle for a hearty breakfast when we suddenly realised that it was Christmas Day and a time for families. And for good _friends_ , too.”

“And we just happened to have a desolate half of a best friendship moping around our flat all morning,” James quirked, throwing off his coat. “He was ruining the mood. And we thought you might have been suffering something similar.”

“So here we are to help,” Lily completed with a little smile at Hermione. “But _this half_ doesn’t seem quite so depressed.”

Hermione shot a pained look at Harry, her pulse speeding both at the sight of him and the idea that he had been so unhappy … and that it might have been because he was away from _her_.

That was an entirely _new_ sensation for her to deal with later.

“I was _not_ depressed!” Harry protested hotly. He turned to Hermione. “I wasn’t, honest.”

“I believe you,” Hermione grinned.

“Well I see _you_ weren’t either, Hermione,” Sirius quirked, taking a seat near Lyra, who blushed herself as their thighs touched.

“Don’t let looks deceive you,” Malcolm offered, reprising his wry grin. “This is the happiest our Hermione has been for at least a week. And _that’s_ only because she just opened Harry’s present.”

Harry’s face lit up. “Ooh, did you really? Do you like it?”

“I _love_ it!” Hermione beamed back. “When we’re back at school you’ll have to help me use it. I literally have no idea how to polish a broomstick.”

James spat out a mouthful of the tea Mal had just handed him and Lily sounded like she’d choked on her own tongue. Hermione looked quizzically at them.

“What? Was it something I said?”

“Oh, oh no, honey,” Lily tried to pacify. “I think I swallowed a fly or something.”

“And this tea is very hot,” James added hastily. “Earl grey though, nice choice.”

“It’s all Hermione will drink,” Mal informed them, causing Harry to feel his brain filing that detail under the _Important Information About What Hermione Likes_ section of his cerebral cortex.

“You know, Malcolm, that breakfast smells delightful,” Sirius announced. “How about we _expand_ it a bit?”

With a grin and flick of his wand, Sirius literally trebled the size of the breakfast platter Malcolm had prepared. Now there was enough for everyone and then some. So all seven of them grabbed plates and sat down for a thoroughly pleasant morning. With everyone in one place it was a time for truths and tales of adventures. Lyra was the most active, telling practically her entire life story and instantly becoming Harry’s new hero.

Well, _most_ of the truths were told. Hermione ate in subdued silence, still trying to process her rampaging thoughts and trying not to focus on Harry and how close he was sitting to her. She kept looking at Sirius and Lyra and how close _they_ were. They were in almost constant contact and Hermione suddenly realised that she _hadn’t_ been dreaming when she thought she saw Sirius leaving their flat early the other morning.

She would _definitely_ be teasing Lyra about that when she got the chance!

But Harry was an inch away from doing the same as Sirius was to Lyra. And Hermione was _hugely_ frustrated by that fact. It might have been a chasm of a thousand miles for how difficult that distance seemed for Hermione to cross. But she didn’t dare, had nothing like that kind of courage.

Then Papageno simply trotted over and jumped into Harry’s lap, causing Lyra and Mal to stare in utter, gobsmacked surprise.

Not that Harry saw that. He was looking only at Hermione, his hand poised over Papageno as he padded around on Harry’s thighs.

“Is this okay?” Harry asked quietly, waiting for permission to proceed.

“Uh-hem,” Hermione managed to say with a tiny nod. It was all she was capable of. The anticipation of feeling Harry’s touch on her dæmon was enough to send her distracted.

And when he finally did it sent a wave of hot senselessness sweeping all through her. Lyra was looking pointedly at her, trying to catch her eye, but Hermione looked resolutely at anything _but_ her Mistress. She didn’t know quite what this was that she was feeling, but she was reasonably sure she was quickly becoming addicted to it.

One thing was for sure … Lyra and Hermione’s ‘girly chat’ that night would be _incredibly_ interesting!

After breakfast, Hermione dragged Harry out to show him the sights of snowy Oxford. She was getting to do this much sooner than she’d planned, but it was a chance she wasn’t going to let pass her by. In any case, she was just _dying_ for some fresh air! She showed Harry to her favourite ornate colleges, marvelled at the spires of the tall buildings, and made snow-angels in the drifts outside the Ashmolean Museum.

It was as they were walking along one of the canal routes that things took a turn.

Harry felt it as a sort of tug in the back of his mind, as though hearing a whisper in the wind. He turned to Hermione as his skin tightened and crept in alternating waves.

“Did you hear that?” Harry asked.

“Hear what?” Hermione replied, immediately concerned by the look in Harry’s eyes.

“It might be nothing,” Harry tried to backtrack. “Just me being weird.”

“You’re not weird, not when you’re like this,” Hermione insisted. “Tell me what you heard. It’s me … you know I wont laugh at you or anything.”

Harry smiled shyly at her. “I know. It’s just that I heard - or I _thought_ I heard - a voice somewhere. Somewhere close.”

“A voice? What kind of voice?”

“Sharp, icy. It wasn’t a voice, even. More of a -”

_Hiss!_

Harry jumped back at the sound, just as the most enormous _snake_ leapt out from a bush on the towpath and snapped angrily at his heels. He tripped and toppled over into the canal, just managing to grab onto the kerb ridge at the side of the path. The cold water hit Harry with the most breathtaking shock, but that was nothing to compare to the terror of what Harry saw next.

The snake was _attacking_ Hermione!

The giant serpent coiled and uncoiled in rapid, menacing fashion as Hermione fumbled for her wand. But the thick, woollen mittens she was wearing were making it impossible to reach inside her coat. And then …

“Ow!”

The thick tail of the snake reared around and clobbered Hermione firmly in the chest, winding her and knocking her to the ground. And the snake slithered ominously towards her. Harry, blood pounding in his ears, hauled himself up from the freezing water and darted towards the snake, with literally no idea what he was going to do when he got there.

Papageno suddenly darted out from under Hermione and spat angrily at the snake, but he was swatted aside by the massive tail, smashing into the towpath wall with a sickening thud. Harry saw Hermione’s eyes roll back into her head as the impact battered into her, too. Then the snake snapped viciously at Hermione, who kicked her feet feebly in terrified but futile defence.

And she was so drained by the assault on Pap that she had almost nothing left to resist with.

Something rose in Harry, something so fierce and unyielding that he would later be afraid of just how feral and animalistic it made him feel.

“No! Face me!” Harry hissed angrily.

Hissed … quite _literally_.

Harry was as surprised as anyone at the strange sounds that had come from his mouth. But as he faced up to the giant serpent, it had just _happened_. As though he were remembering how to speak a language he’d inexplicably forgotten. Not that he had much time to consider the insanity of that.

For the snake had followed Harry’s command. It had abandoned its attack on Hermione, and was now fronting up to Harry instead. It uncoiled menacingly, rising up to look Harry directly in the face. They locked eyes, the beady pupils of the snake flicking in and out of the scaly hoods that covered them. Harry was borderline hypnotised by them, but not enough to lose his focus.

For though the head of the snake was practically nose-to-nose with him, the thick tail was inching away towards Hermione, almost out of Harry’s sight.

_Almost._

“No, you coward! Face _me_!” Harry shrieked again.

The snake seemed to look _tauntingly_ at Harry, then lunged at Hermione again.

Then, quite on instinct, Harry brandished his wand. He whipped it expertly in a series of quick actions, making a sort of crooked _‘Z’_ shape in the space between Hermione and the snake. It hung there like a glowing, purple shield.

“ _Eihwaz_!” Hermione cried in astonishment … and the snake was repelled with some force right back to Harry’s feet, as it hit the strange, hovering symbol when it moved on Hermione once more.

But Harry’s wand was flicking again. He struck it in three rapid slashes, burning a lightning-shape of angry red flame into the very air between himself and the snake. Then he _pushed_ this shape right into the dense flesh of the ready-to-strike serpent.

And its piercing hiss of agony was matched in intensity only by the searing heat of the flame that had scorched its scales.

“ _Harry_!”

Hermione’s scream of terror jerked Harry back from the inertia of his surprise, that his attack on the snake had been so successful. The serpent reeled away to coil again nearby, nursing the jagged branding standing out pale and raw on its burnt green flesh. Harry ignored that and sprinted to Hermione’s side, grabbing her outstretched hand - that was ready and waiting for him - and dragging her back to her feet. Her wand was pointing over Harry’s shoulder, fixed shakily on their slithering foe.

“Harry! What _was_ that?” Hermione panted. “That was _incredible_. I could feel the power of the spell from over here! What did you do?”

“Runic spell casting,” came the high-pitched reply from behind them. “Very impressive … Harry Potter.”

Harry span, icy fear trickling through his veins. His breath caught on the way out of his lungs, encircling his thudding heart. The voice was just _that_ cold and callous. Harry found himself looking not at the snake, but at a cloudy, smoky form of a man. He had never seen him in person before, but he was utterly certain who he was looking at.

And Hermione confirmed it a second later.

“Dr Thomas Riddle!”

Harry’s stomach seemed to lose its bottom. Harry moved to stand in front of Hermione, pushing her back away from the advancing spectre of Lord Voldemort.

“You remember me, Miss Granger,” Riddle replied delicately, his voice distant and ethereal, as if he was speaking from a whole world away. “I am touched. Harry, here, probably doesn’t. He likely cant recall my face, my voice … but he _must_ recognise the _feel_ of my power. After all, how else could he have _spoken_ to my snake form?”

“That was a _language_?” Harry hushed in shock. “I can … _speak to snakes?”_

“As can I,” Riddle smiled creepily. “Perhaps one day we will have a discussion all about it. But first things first, I want an answer to Miss Granger’s question … who _did_ teach you to runic spell cast like that?”

“We did.”

Harry span around again, and a sort of electric charge shot through every single particle of him. For there, ranged behind Hermione were Sirius and Lyra and Mal, while Pantalaimon helped an awake again Papageno to gingerly trot back to a position of safety. And, stood protectively either side of Harry’s best friend were Lily and James, eyes wide and expressions furious, wands drawn and _pumping_ with their combined power. It was so potent Harry felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck as it swirled around him. He’d never seen his parents so charged and ready, so serious and intent.

And the others were a fierce mirror of the primed Potters. Sirius was growling from deep within his throat, struggling to keep his hair from turning into the matted fur of his rabid dog Animagus form. Lyra seemed to be holding him back, the crooked elbow of her gun-wielding arm blocking him from springing forward. Mal, too, had his long-barrelled rifle fixed on the image of Thomas Riddle before them, while at his feet Pap was now spitting viciously as Pan circled above and screeched the battle cry of a hungry predator.

Riddle appeared to know he was outmatched. With another snarl-like grin he faced each member of the crowd in turn, letting his eyes fall on Harry’s mother last. He left his most vicious expression for her, it would seem.

“Remember my last, Lily.”

And with a _snap_ there was blinding flash of light, and both snake and man were gone.

“He’s only a street away!” Pantalaimon called from high above.

“He must be more injured than we thought,” James cried, thumping Harry proudly on the shoulder. “Good work, son!”

“This isn’t over!” Lily shrieked. “We cant let him escape.”

And she was off, running full pelt as Pan shouted down directions from overhead. Harry was in his mother’s slipstream now, energised and emboldened by the adrenaline coursing through all of them. They dashed through street after street in pursuit of Riddle, who was slithering as far as he could, before Apparating the short distances he could manage.

Then Pan cried down animatedly.

“He’s heading into that church … we have him trapped!”

Lily and James put on another spurt of speed as they rounded the last corner … but Malcolm was shouting at them from behind.

“Be careful! If he’s gone into a church …”

And it was _Sirius_ who realised the ambush first.

“ _Protego!”_ he screamed, flicking his wand just in time … just as the first bullets shot out of the vestibule doors towards them.

They pinged harmlessly off the magical shield and away to safety. Lily dived on Harry and pulled him behind the low wall of a nearby garden, while James pinned Hermione in place behind a parked transit van. Lyra fired off several rounds from her gun, while Mal took aim at a sniper on the roof.

“Who is this?” James called to Sirius, who was crouched behind a battered Ford Anglia parked nearby.

“The Magisterium,” Sirius shouted back. “The religious power from Lyra’s world. I had no idea they had any presence here.”

“That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you!” Lyra raged over the crackle of more gunfire. “If only your massive ego didn’t get in the way of _everything_ …”

“Lyra? Is that _you?_ ”

Silence fell in an instant. Harry managed to get a look at Lyra … who had lost all colour from her face as the voice from the churchyard echoed over their heads. She stood, looking shakily over the bonnet of the car she was shielding herself behind. Harry couldn’t put a name to the confused, angry, scared expression on her face. It was everything all at once.

Then she spoke … and it was a tone equally as unreadable.

“ _Will_?”


	17. The Dragon's Egg

“Will!” Lyra repeated, finding her usual voice again. “What the hell is this?”

“Colonel Parry!” came a desperate cry from somewhere in the churchyard. “They have _wizards_ with them over there! You know the standing protocol is to withdraw and regroup!”

“In a moment, Prewett!” Will cried back.

“No, Colonel, we must _withdraw_! Right this instant!”

“Dont you dare, Will!” Lyra shrieked angrily. “You stand your ground and explain this to me!”

“Not here, Lyra,” Will called back. “Meet me. Our _usual spo_ t. Midnight tomorrow … I’ll be waiting for you. Please be there ... and I'll show you that you've picked the wrong side in this fight.”

And then Will Parry raced into the graveyard of the church. There was the roar of a motor, the rush of whipping rotor blades, and then a black attack helicopter suddenly lurched into the air and sped away from them before anyone could react to stop them.

“Damn it!” Lily cursed. “Riddle must have left with them. We were _so_ close.”

“We’ll get him next time,” James consoled, finally releasing Hermione from where he’d pinioned her against the parked van and helping Lily to her feet. Hermione took a huge breath as her lungs were freed from the crushing pressure.

“Was that _the_ Will?” Sirius queried, as Lyra and Mal came over and lowered their weapons.

Lyra nodded. “I just don’t know what he was doing _here_. I heard the Magisterium had taken an interest in him, but … he … he …”

“He was _one_ of them, Lyra,” Mal scythed bitterly. “If anything, I’d say he was _leading_ that little rabble.”

“No, no,” Lyra shook her head dismissively. “Will would _never_ do that. He was too kind, too good -”

“When he was _twelve_!” Mal cut across briskly. “That was a _long_ time ago. Clearly, things have changed. That man we just saw isn’t the boy you knew, Lyra.”

“What did he mean by _meet at our usual spot_?” Sirius asked. “I thought you hadn’t seen him since you sealed the last portal between your worlds.”

“I haven’t,” Lyra confirmed. Then she flushed in the pale winter light. “But we agreed - when we parted - that once a year, on the same day, we’d return to a particular spot in a garden in the grounds of Jordan College, him in his world and me in mine, and we’d sit on a bench that was there in _both_ worlds. That way, we’d _sort_ of still be near to one another.

“I’ve never missed one. Never.”

Hermione swooned in her throat. On instinct, taken by the emotion of the moment, she slid next to Harry, threw caution to the wind and slipped her arm into the crook of his. He looked up questioningly at her, understood what she needed, and cautiously hugged her arm tight to his hip. She smiled sheepishly as he did so and Harry knew he’d done this one thing right.

He was getting better at reading Hermione’s unspoken requests. And the notion cheered Harry no end.

“You aren’t going to go to this meeting, are you?” Sirius pressed to Lyra. “It’s far too dangerous.”

“Of course I’m going,” Lyra stated stubbornly, before adding, “and if you’re so concerned, you can come with me for protection. You’re a wizard, make yourself invisible, or something. Or don’t come at all. Either way, I’m going. I wont rest until I find out what Will is playing at.”

“I don’t think he’s _playing_ at all,” Mal proffered in a dark tone. “But Sirius, go with her. We cant change her mind, but I’ll stop complaining if I know she has a chaperone for this _date_.”

“I’ll be there,” Sirius confirmed with a curt little nod at Mal. Harry had the feeling that there was a grudging respect growing between these two, borne of a shared concern about this most contrary woman that they both cared deeply about.

Lyra Belacqua, it seemed, had lost none of the power that had drawn both men under her sway a long, long time ago.

* * *

Harry and Hermione didn’t see each other for the rest of the Christmas Holidays. The truth was that Lyra refused to let Hermione leave their flat, essentially making her a prisoner in her own room. This only added to Hermione’s already frustrated sense of mind, for Lyra had refused to tell her anything of her conversation with the mysterious Will Parry, nor to explain why it was that Thomas Riddle and the Magisterium might be targeting _her_ , other than to say it was tied to her destiny with Harry.

Hermione hoped that Harry might have been told more about it, and it was the very first thing she asked him, once they had met up again in their Hogwarts Express compartment on January the Third.

“My parents and Sirius are being just as vague as Lyra,” Harry confessed as the train rolled out of Kings Cross. “They haven’t said much.”

“But they have said _something_ ,” Hermione implored. “Can you tell me what that is? Please? I cant _stand_ being in the dark like this.”

Harry fiddled with the black leather bracelet on his wrist. It was set with an amethyst charm that had a pentacle drawn into it in brilliant white. It was a gift from Sirius and was supposed to focus magical energy from the plexus on Harry’s wrist, to give his spells more power. But Harry thought it just looked edgy and cool.

“I’m not supposed to say,” Harry mumbled.

“Even to _me?_ ” Hermione replied, sounding hurt.

Harry _hated_ that sound, but he tried to stand firm. “ _Especially_ to you. It’s for the best, apparently.”

“You don’t sound sure about that.”

“That’s because I’m not,” Harry confessed. “To tell the truth, I don’t understand it _at all_.”

“Then tell me,” Hermione cajoled in her angel-soft tone, hoping Harry still had his weakness to her gentle coaxing. “Maybe we can work it out together.”

“That’s sort of the thing,” Harry went on, his flimsy resistance smashed at the first foray. “It’s all to do with _that_. The reason you came here in the first place. There is something you are able to bring out in _me_ , something that will help me defeat Voldemort if I ever face him properly. But we’re supposed to just _let it happen_. We cant force it … whatever it is. We cant even _know_ what it is.”

Hermione huffed. She had heard those words before, from Serafina Pekkala and others. She placed great store in the wisdom of the witches of her world and it was this, more than anything, that made her shelve her rabid curiosity. For now.

“Fine, let's just do _nothing.”_

“I’m sorry … I wish I had more to tell you.”

“Oh - I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t mean to snap at you,” Hermione apologised quickly. “I’m not mad at _you_. It’s them … and the whole world seems to be part of _them_.”

“I know,” Harry grinned weakly. “At least it means we have to stay friends, though. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

Hermione smiled radiantly at him, as bright as sunshine poking through rainy clouds. “It’s the _best_ thing.”

Harry felt his cheeks heat up as Hermione’s solar smile fell on him. He had to change the subject.

“So, did you get all your homework done?”

“Within the first week,” Hermione chimed happily. “I did six inches more for Snape’s essay than he asked for, just to give him more work to do. Then I rewrote half my History of Magic assignment, to include some local information about Merlin’s Coven that I found when Lyra took me to see Stonehenge …”

And she was off, reciting all that she had learned about the magical community in Avebury. After that, Harry used his best flattery to persuade Hermione to read through his Charms essay for any mistakes. Then they entered into a fascinating and invigorating discussion about the rune stone set Hermione had bought Harry for Christmas, and _he_ told her how his mother had stepped up his education into how to use them properly.

“Each gemstone has its own vibrational frequency, did you know that?” Harry asked her with indecent zeal, though he didn’t wait for a reply before ploughing on. “And there is a way to get resonance between that frequency and your wand, then you can channel the power of the rune and cast spells with them. The very _symbols_ are esoterically enchanted, did you know that? Of course you did, you know everything.”

“I don’t know _everything_ , Harry,” Hermione argued shyly. “But I did know that the shapes of the runes are considered _divinely designed_. They carry deep meanings, being far more than simply characters in an alphabet. The very symbols themselves _are_ spells, and obviously _you_ know how to charge and use them.”

“I’m only just beginning to learn,” Harry told her. “And there’s a _lot_ to get to grips with. But it’s fascinating, I think. I’m still just on individual runes right now, but I hope I’ll be able to combine them one day. Then my spells will be really powerful, even more than the ones I used against Voldemort.”

Hermione turned her eyes down as she smiled coyly. “I never said thank you for that … for saving me.”

“You don’t ever have to thank me for something like _that_ ,” Harry stated bluntly. “I’d prefer if you were never _in_ trouble, but if you are, I’ll always be there to help you if I can. Do … do you genuinely think I wouldn’t be?”

“A bit. I’m not used to having someone who would come to my rescue if I needed it,” Hermione confessed in a tiny voice. “It’s very new for me.”

“Well, you’d better get used to it,” Harry grinned, sitting back and idly scratching Papageno behind his ears. “Because you’re stuck with me, Miss Granger!”

Hermione couldn’t tell him, wasn’t sure she’d _ever_ be able to tell him, just how welcome those magical words were to her ears.

* * *

The Welcome Back feast that night was spectacular. The remnants of the Christmas crackers had been laid out on the House Tables and once they’d all been pulled it was as if a cloud of battle-smoke was hovering just over the heads of the students. The sumptuous feast left them all rather leaden and weary and it was with very full stomachs that the students trudged up to bed that night.

Harry couldn’t help but give a listen out as they passed the Third Floor Corridor, and was happy to hear a low growl as the stamping feet of a thousand young witches and wizards disturbed Fluffy from his slumber. The Philosopher’s Stone must still be safe beneath his three snouts, and that was enough for Harry to put it from his mind.

When Harry reached his dorm he was looking forward to collapsing in a heap onto his four-poster and just passing out in his day clothes. But he was hit by a rancid sort of smell when he entered the room. It was coming from Ron’s bed, the scarlet curtains of which had already been drawn around the heavy wooden frame.

“Oh sweet Merlin, looks like Ron’s farted again,” Dean Thomas quirked, wrinkling his nose as he closed the door to the circular dorm.

“Yeah, but I don’t remember eating burnt tyres for dinner,” Seamus laughed back. “Phew! I think Ron should go and see Madame Pomfrey in the morning - say his guts have gone all _Hamlet_ on him.”

“Eh?” Neville asked, confused.

“ _Something is rotten in the state of Weasley_!” Harry quipped back, causing Seamus to salute him from across the dorm. “I’m going to bed. Maybe the smell wont be so bad once I’m asleep.”

But the next morning, the pungent aroma was still there. Harry was the last one to wake to it, but all the boys were pinching their noses as they headed towards the showers before dressing for breakfast.

“I don’t know what it is, but it’s bloody _disgusting_ ,” Seamus moaned as he buttered a crumpet.

“It’s unnatural, is what it is,” Dean agreed. “Nobody should smell like _that_.”

“Maybe …” Neville began, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Maybe they don’t have any running water at The Weasleys. I hear they are _very_ poor. Their house, apparently, is extremely _rustic_.”

“That smell isn’t from not bathing,” Harry argued. “It’s more like from swimming with livestock and all their faeces.”

“Poo talk? At breakfast? _Honestly_ , Harry!”

“Morning, Hermione,” Neville chirped brightly, as Harry shimmied up to allow Hermione to plant herself down next to him. “How was your Christmas?”

His eyes were twinkling with mirth, but Hermione simply narrowed hers at him.

“It was very pleasant, actually,” she returned loftily. “And thank you for the flowers. They were lovely.”

Harry snapped his head to Neville so fast he almost cracked his neck muscles. “You sent Hermione _flowers_?”

Hermione couldn’t help but grin to herself at the ferocious look on Harry’s face, as she reached over to touch his forearm in a pacifying sort of way.

“Yes, but it was a very funny joke,” Hermione explained. “As underneath the flowers was a potted _mandrake_ … which screamed and screamed, until I looked up how to _shut it up_ by burying it back in the earth. Very funny, Neville.”

“I only got it because they are good at reviving people who have been Petrified,” Neville told her with a laugh. “You know … it _wakes people up_.”

He nodded pointedly between Harry and Hermione, causing the latter to blush. But Harry missed that as he was choosing a particularly juicy pear to devour for his breakfast, slicing it up totally oblivious to whatever it was that Neville and Hermione were on about.

“So, what were you talking about when I came in?” Hermione asked, stealing the first slice of pear as Harry cut it onto his plate and popping it into her mouth. He continued on without complaint, as if it were Hermione’s right to take his things if she wanted to.

“This really odd smell that was coming from Ron Weasley’s bunk last night,” Neville replied.

“An odder smell than _normal_ ,” Harry clarified with a little smirk at Neville.

“It was _rancid_ ,” Neville took over. “I know his feet and breath are bad, but this was something else. Even both _combined_ wouldn’t be this awful.”

“And he was really secretive on the train,” Dean chipped in. “Quieter than normal.”

“Do you think he’s hiding something then?” Hermione asked in a business-like tone. “Or _up to_ something?”

“Who knows, but if that smell is still in the dorm tonight I’ll be giving _him_ a hiding till it goes away,” Harry promised darkly.

But the smell hadn’t gone away by the end of the day. Worse still there was a powerful new aroma of beeswax and furniture polish mixing acridly with it, as though someone had tried to mask the stench. Harry chose to give the dorm a wide berth; he didn’t trust himself to keep his promise to Hermione to _not_ break Ron’s neck, if he didn’t clean up whatever foulness had infected his bed.

So Harry joined Hermione in tackling their first homework of the new term, describing the threats and counter actions related to Devil’s Snare, which Professor Sprout had been telling them about that morning. Harry smugly finished his essay first, having remembered all about it from when Dumbledore dropped in on him a year ago and they had discussed the dangerous plant.

“I don’t think I’d like to be liquidated by a bush,” Harry mused, as he listened to the relaxing sound of Hermione’s quill scratching away. “I don’t see that as the _way I’d like to go_.”

Hermione quirked an eyebrow at him. “You have a preferred _way_? Because that’s not weird at all!”

“I never said I was normal,” Harry quirked. "But yeah. I don't think I'd like to die in a way that people would laugh about. And that definitely counts!"

“Yes, but that’s just morbid, Harry. Besides, I don’t like you talking about your death. Stop it.”

“Sorry,” Harry offered, genuinely surprised by how serious Hermione was being. “I’ll make sure not to run into any killer plants any time soon!”

“And if you do?” Hermione quizzed. “How do you escape? Let’s see if there’s any content to your scribbles over there!”

“Devil’s Snare likes the cold, damp and dark,” Harry recited. “So hit it with heat and light. A good fire will do the trick, or those bluebell flames you are so skilled at conjuring.”

“How about _dragon fire?”_ asked Neville, flopping down angrily at their table as he stomped into the Common Room. “Would _that_ do?”

“Yes, obviously,” Hermione answered him in a sniffy voice. “But where would you find any of that?”

“How about _Hagrid’s Hut!”_ Neville seethed. “In ten minutes or so!”

“What are you talking about?” asked Harry, sitting up in alarm.

“That’s what it was, the smell in our room!” Neville ranted on. “It was a dragon’s egg _,_ Harry! A bloody _dragon's egg_! Ron somehow managed to get one for Hagrid as a Christmas present! And he’s taking it to give to him right as we speak!”


	18. Hermione's Brilliant Plan

It took fully thirty seconds for Harry and Hermione to process this startling piece of news. But when they finally did, the incredulous questions came thick and fast.

“Is he insane? I mean _actually_ insane?”

“The bigger question, Hermione, is how in the hell did Ron even get a dragon’s egg in the first place?”

“No, Harry, the _really_ big question is does he realise that Hagrid lives in a _wooden_ house? I can imagine wood having a very difficult relationship with a dragon who breathes _fire_! And that brings me neatly back to my original question - is Ron a complete idiot?”

“I think we all know the answer to _that_ ,” Harry smirked. “But this certainly sets new standards. I want to know what possessed him to get this egg for Hagrid at all.”

“Well we’ll find out soon enough,” Hermione sniffed bracingly. “Assuming Neville doesn’t get caught by Filch dragging Ron’s carcass back here.”

Neville had indeed been sent on this mission by Harry and Hermione, to haul Ron back to the Gryffindor Common Room where they could interrogate him for answers. Harry was mainly concerned about the consequences of having a wild and dangerous beast loose in the grounds, but for Hermione she seemed to be taking Ron’s latest act of stupidity very much to heart. It was as though his inherent idiocy itself was an insult to her considerable intelligence.

The wait was longer than either of them was happy with, but presently the Portrait Hole swung open and Neville appeared, prodding a very sheepish-looking Ron through to face his fate. Hermione snapped to her feet and grabbed the Jester’s Stool, marching it to the centre of the room where she planted it firmly onto the flagstones.

“Sit,” she commanded, pointing at the stool as Ron eyed her cautiously.

Ron obeyed. He knew that resistance was futile.

“I don’t know where to start, I honestly don’t,” Hermione began, pacing furiously around in an angry little circle with her hands on her hips. “What in the world were you _thinking_? No, I take that back. You don’t know _how_ to think. I’m convinced of that.”

“I can think,” Ron protested meekly.

“Clearly _not_!” Hermione sniped. “You brought a _dragon_ to Hogwarts! Is that your idea of _thinking?_ It’s dangerous, idiotic, not to mention illegal! I cannot even put a number on how many rules you’ve broken by doing this. Do you even realise the seriousness of what you’ve done? You’ve placed the school in danger, placed Harry in danger - and Hagrid and the rest of us, obviously.”

She said all this very fast, and the last bit fastest of all. If she wasn’t already flushed in her crossness she would have certainly turned several shades of crimson at her slip. She hoped Harry hadn’t heard, hadn’t understood why she was so animated.

But he had, and he couldn’t help but grin as he marvelled at it.

Ron, on the other hand, had paled at Hermione’s words. He clearly hadn’t considered the implications of his actions, but Harry was solely focused on finding out his reasons for those first.

“Why did you even do it?” Harry asked, standing and joining Hermione at her imaginary interrogation podium. “I need to wrap my head around this.”

Ron played anxiously with his fingers where they were sweating in his lap. “I … I was just trying to do something nice, for Hagrid you know.”

“Nice? _Nice_!” Hermione shrieked. “You think getting him a new pet that can burn his house down is nice?!”

“Hagrid can handle it,” Ron offered. “Have you seen him? He’s very big.”

“Not as big as a dragon!” Harry pointed out.

“No, but he’s always wanted one,” Ron told them. “So he must think he can handle it. And after that three-headed dog of his, he said a dragon would be a doddle.”

“You know about Fluffy?” Harry asked in surprise. “How?”

“Hagrid told me,” Ron replied. “How do _you_ know about him?”

“I met him, not that it’s important right now. Hagrid told you about him, you say?”

“Yeah, when we were talking about pets we’ve had,” Ron went on. “He told me all about how easy Fluffy is to calm down - you just play him some music and he falls asleep.”

Harry and Hermione’s eyes shot to one another. The implications of Ron finding that out so easily were not lost on either of them. This was definitely a topic to revisit later.

“Okay, forget about Fluffy for now,” Hermione took over. “What made you give Hagrid a dragon’s egg in the first place, knowing how dangerous and illegal they are?”

“And how did you even get one?” Harry chipped in.

“My brother, Charlie, works with dragons all over Europe,” Ron explained. “He was asked to come here over Christmas, because the Ministry had received reports of nesting dragons in the Forest of Dean. They have a department that tracks and traces all dragons in Britain, but these were new. And Charlie is an expert, so they asked him to take a look.

“He offered to take me with him, just to get me out of the house I think. Anyway, when we got to the Forest of Dean it wasn’t nesting dragons we found, but an illegal breeding operation. Dragon resources are very expensive you know. Not just eggs, but the claws and teeth, hide and blood. There’s a lot of gold to be made on the Black Market.

“Charlie raided it himself, but there was nobody there. Then I saw the pile of unhatched eggs that were being stored in a hut. Charlie asked me to count them, so he could inventory the site. So I did, only I … er … counted one less than was there.”

“The one you pocketed?” Hermione deduced crossly. “The one you just gave to Hagrid?”

Ron nodded and looked down at his shoes.

“Okay, so that’s the _how_ ,” Harry stepped in. “Now let’s get to the _why_.”

Ron didn’t look up, and when he finally spoke after a few silent moments his voice was painfully little.

“I wanted to do something nice for him,” Ron mumbled. “He’s been really good to me since I arrived. I … I know nobody likes me, that they laugh at me and stuff. I’m not _that_ stupid. But Hagrid’s door is always open for a cup of tea or a chat if I need one. I even try to eat his rock cakes, that I’m sure he makes with _real_ rocks. I know it was silly what I did, but I wanted to show him how grateful I am for his company.

“He … he’s the closest thing to a friend I have here.”

Harry’s annoyance evaporated at that, drifted away like a cool mist. Ron was a minor irritant for him, background noise, really. He hadn’t paid him much mind since their first few days at Hogwarts. But now he could see that being lanky and socially awkward weren’t the only reasons for his sour attitude … he was _lonely_. And Harry knew all about _that_.

And so he couldn’t hold it against the boy.

“Right, well, as gestures go it’s - er - _interesting_ ,” Harry began. “But we cant just let a dragon stay here. It has to go.”

“You cant tell anyone … please,” Ron begged.

“You’re worried about getting into trouble?” Hermione snapped waspishly. “A bit late for that, isn’t it?”

“Not really,” Neville offered, moving to join them. “Right now, only us four and Hagrid know about this. If we keep it to ourselves, no-one else has to get involved.”

“Yeah,” Ron nodded eagerly, throwing a thankful look to Neville. “I don’t want my brother to lose his job. My parents would disown me for being responsible.”

“Responsible is the _last_ thing you’ve been,” Hermione huffed with a stern sigh. “Okay, this will take some thinking about. Harry? Any ideas? Could your parents help?”

“I’d sooner ask my Godfather,” Harry confessed. “He’d think this was a great laugh. I’ll send Hedwig to him in the morning, see what his advice is.”

“No, we should do that tonight,” Hermione announced decisively. “Tomorrow will be a busy day.”

“Why? Are we doing something?” Harry queried as Hermione prepared to frog-march him to the Owlery.

“What … apart from talking to Hagrid and learning how to birth a baby _dragon_?” Hermione asked sardonically.

“Birth?”

“We have to be prepared,” Hermione declared. “If the egg hatches we have to know what to do with it.”

“Why do I have a feeling we will be spending a lot of time in the library over the next few days?” Harry smirked. “Should I get my mail redirected there?”

“Shut up, Harry,” Hermione frowned. Then she turned to Neville and Ron. “You two, go to bed. And don’t mention any of this to anyone. Neville, your job is to babysit this one. Harry and I will be back soon.”

And with that she hurried Harry from the room. Ron turned to Neville with a bewildered look on his face.

“She really is bossy, isn’t she?”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Neville grinned back. “Poor Harry. What an obedient husband he’ll have to be for a quiet life! Does your brother really work with dragons?”

“Yeah, in Romania, and Sweden, and Liechtenstein. All over, really.”

“That’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah, s’pose,” Ron sniffed. “Just hope I don’t get him in trouble now.”

“Dont worry, Harry Potter is on the case,” Neville replied confidently. “And with Hermione Granger for company they’ll think of something. Come on, lets have a mug of hot chocolate and you can tell me what your other older brother does. He was Head Boy here, wasn’t he …”

* * *

Hedwig hadn’t returned by the morning, which disappointed Harry greatly. He sat in the Great Hall at breakfast as the other owls flew in and circled overhead, but there was no snowy white bird amongst the number. Interestingly, Pantalaimon soared in with the other owls - as it was his weekly check-up visit - and Hermione spirited him away to the grounds to seek his counsel, which Harry hoped might improve her mood.

For Hermione had been acting funny all morning, all because they’d nearly been caught by Filch on the way back from the Owlery the previous night, and had been forced to seek refuge in a cramped stationery cupboard. For seven breathless minutes they had been squashed together in the dark, until the danger had passed. But Hermione had been oddly cool towards him ever since, and Harry hoped his bad breath or Quidditch training sweats hadn’t suddenly turned his best friend against him.

Hermione was perfectly cheery when she joined Harry at their table in Charms later that morning, though, and Harry made a note to thank Pan for whatever sage words might have caused such an upturn in her demeanour. She didn’t even tell him off for mispronouncing the spell they were working on that lesson ( _Alohomora)_ and actually said his wand movement was better than hers, which they both knew was a bit of a fib.

Hermione’s mood kept all through their morning break right into lunchtime, both of which were spent in the library looking for books on dragon care. Curiously, many titles were missing from the inventory. Far from bring discouraged by the setback, Hermione seemed to take great joy from the challenge of finding the information in some other place. Soon she had a little pile of tomes on alternative fire-breathing creatures, hoping that rules for care of these magical beasts might be universal.

“It’s a bit weird though, isn’t it, that _all_ the books on dragons are missing?” she mused aloud as she flicked through the first book from her collection.

“I’m surprised they even have any here,” Harry replied. “We wont be studying dragons, will we? So why have books on them?”

“Oh, NEWT level Care of Magical Creatures deals with dragons,” Hermione informed him chirpily. “Not in direct contact, obviously, but there is a section on it. I checked the course contents when I was looking into higher education requirements.”

“Of course you did,” Harry teased her gently. “I suppose you just ran out of books so needed _something_ to read!”

Hermione simply held her head up loftily and made a scrunched-up face, as Harry laughed at her pouting.

The mystery of the missing books didn’t outlast the day. Harry and Hermione solved it just after five o’clock, when they visited Hagrid and found all the guides and manuals stocked up on his large kitchen table, next to the dragon egg which - bizarrely - Hagrid had placed into a baby’s cot lined with a neon-pink blanket.

“Er, Hagrid … you’re not thinking of _keeping_ it, are you?” Hermione asked cautiously, picking up _A Beginner’s Guide to Dragon-Rearing_ and holding it aloft _._

“Wah? No, o’ course not,” Hagrid replied. Harry noticed the half-giant didn’t quite meet the young witch’s eye when he said that though.

“Then why all the books?” Hermione pushed.

“The egg is not long till Hatching Day,” Hagrid told her brightly as he poured them mugs of tea. “I got to know what to do when she comes. Don’t want the poor thing getting all upset as soon as she meets the world.”

“She?” Harry queried. “How do you know it’s female?”

“I just do,” Hagrid sang happily. “Mummy knows about these things.”

Harry turned to Hermione, who looked just as baffled as he, and silently mouthed the question: _Mummy?_ Hermione could only shrug by way of reply.

“Hagrid, what are you going to do when the egg hatches?” Harry pressed on. “You cant keep a dragon, you know that.”

Hagrid sighed deeply. “I know I can’t - not forever, anyway. But I can’t just leave it alone. It’ll die.”

Secretly, Harry thought this might be for the best, though he thought better of telling Hagrid this. In any case, he was busy adjusting a bonnet he’d placed on the egg and probably wouldn’t have heard Harry anyway.

“You have to tell someone, Hagrid,” Hermione insisted. “A dragon on the loose is too dangerous to be kept a secret.”

Hagrid rounded on Hermione. “Tell? And get little Ron Weasley in trouble? Never. I’d likely lose me own job, too. And the dragon’d be carted off and probably put down. No, I wont do it.”

“But it cant stay here, Hagrid,” Harry implored. “Your house is too small.”

“I could build a pen out the back.”

“Dumbledore wouldn’t allow a dragon on the grounds,” Harry insisted, shaking his head at the notion.

“Not to mention that this is illegal,” Hermione added. “Ron _stole_ a dragon egg from a breeder and dealer. The authorities should know about that, in case there are more out there.”

Hagrid chewed on his substantial bottom lip. Then he shook his shaggy beard. “No. I wont have the boy getting into trouble.”

“But there must be something we can do about the dragon,” Harry went on. “Can you think of no other way?”

“Well, there are caves, deep in the Forbidden Forest,” Hagrid revealed. “The whelp might be safe there, and I could go and feed it till it’s big enough to look after itself.”

“Caves? In the Forest?”

“Yep. And there are already a pair of dragons there, that were rescued from a barbaric research centre. One had its wings cut off, and its mate looks after it from the safety of the cave. They are a heartbreaking case, you know.”

“Heartbreaking?” Harry asked. “How so?”

“The female had her womb cut out, so they could extract stuff for potions and medicines,” Hagrid explained bitterly. “So they cant breed. But when dragons mate, they mate _for life_. It must be hard for them without any young to care for. It’s a huge thing in dragon culture, having babies. They only ever interact with their own family circle, see, ‘cause they are such solitary creatures. And by solitary, I mean _the two of them_. The pair is solitary. They only meet other dragons to mate, or to hunt when food is scare, or when the dragons go to war.”

“Dragons go to _war_?” Harry whispered, astonished.

“Not often. There’s hardly ever a fight they deem worthy of their mettle. But sometimes they do.”

They were disturbed by an alarm clock going off by Hagrid’s bed. He stood up to turn it off.

“Sorry both, but I forgot - I have detention this evening,” Hagrid announced.

“ _You_ have detention?” Harry frowned. “How can you have detention?”

Hagrid gave out a booming laugh. “No, Harry. What I meant is that I’m _doing_ the detentions. There’s been some nasty things going on in the Forest lately, animals found dead and whatnot. So naughty kids get to come with me, get a bit scared of what they see, and maybe think twice before breaking the rules again. It’s a frightening place for young-un’s, is the Forbidden Forest.”

And with that Hagrid bowed them from his house, but not before he insisted on loading their pockets with some of his cakes, which were indeed as hard as rocks.

“He’s mad, if he thinks he can get away with keeping a dragon as a pet,” Harry mused. “Totally mad.”

But Hermione had been thinking. “Harry, did you hear what Hagrid was saying about those dragons in the Forest?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“I was wondering about what he said, about them not being able to breed.”

“Go on.”

“Well, what do you think if … maybe … do you think we could get them to, sort of, _adopt_ the baby dragon when it hatches?”

“Adopt?” Harry parroted doubtfully. “I don’t know how we’d do that.”

“We could just present it to them,” Hermione went on eagerly. “If they want a baby - and we have a baby we _don’t_ want - maybe they will take it.”

“Or maybe they’ll just _eat it_ … or _us_!” Harry pointed out sagely. “It would be stupidly dangerous. Not to mention we’d have to get the baby dragon first, then find a way into the Forest. It’s spelled to stop students just wandering in, don’t forget.”

“I know, but I think I have a way around that,” Hermione told him, somewhat cryptically. “Meet me on the Astronomy Tower about midnight, and I’ll tell you what it is. Promise me you’ll come.”

“Alright, I promise. But -”

“No buts, just be there,” Hermione cut in bossily. “Oh, and bring your Dad’s special cloak.”

Harry was dubious as he watched Hermione skip away, but he complied nonetheless. At five minutes to midnight he was to be found on top of the highest Tower in the castle, shivering slightly against the breeze that swirled around the open-sided parapet up here. Hermione was nowhere to be seen, but Harry _heard_ her as she approached. In fact, she was making enough noise to wake half the castle.

For she was dragging a suit of armour up the spiral staircase, which was so heavy she dropped it with an almighty _crash._

“What are you _doing_?” Harry hissed as Hermione joined him. “You’ll be caught making all that racket!”

“I know,” Hermione replied cheerfully. “That’s sort of the point. I _want_ to get caught.”

Harry threw the Invisibility Cloak over her. They were drawn so close together now that her warm breath tickled his face pleasantly.

“What do you mean _you want to get caught_?” Harry went on lowly. “Have you lost your mind?”

“It’s the only way to get into the Forest,” Hermione revealed. “We need to get detention with Hagrid.”

Harry swore under his breath. “So this is your brilliant plan?”

“Yes, and I’m glad you agree that it’s brilliant.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You sort of _did_.”

In the dark, Harry couldn’t see Hermione smirking, but he knew she was all the same.

“I wont do it. This is mental,” Harry stated firmly.

“It’s the only way,” Hermione implored. “Please Harry, just go with me on this. I cant do it without you. I need you.”

Later, much later, Harry would wonder just how pliable he was to the gentlest of pleading from Hermione Granger. It was a trait that was worthy of being teased for, and he surely would be. But he just didn’t have it in him to say no to her.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” Harry conceded. “But what will we say we are doing up here at this time of night? My Aunt Min will surely ask when we get sent to her.”

“We’ll just say that the Common Room was too crowded ... so we came up here for a quick snog in private,” Hermione replied breezily, causing Harry to nearly choke on his own tonsils. “Most people think we do that all the time anyway. They certainly wont believe any other story we might make up.”

“T-they wont?”

“No, they wont,” came a malicious voice from down the staircase. “My, my … we are in trouble.”

Harry turned and looked right into the sneering face of Argus Filch. For, unbeknownst to him, Hermione had whispered _Wingardium Leviosa_ under her breath … and the Invisibility Cloak was now hanging three feet above their exposed heads.


	19. Talking in Tongues

In the dark of the corridor, in the face of Filch’s maniacal, gleaming eyes, this didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore.

Harry and Hermione were marched in silence to Professor McGonagall’s private chambers on the Second Floor of Gryffindor tower. All the way down, Harry felt his anxiety grow like a sickening, coiling knot in his belly. Wild, half-formed alibis chased each other around in his brain, tripping over each other to be considered and rejected first. Their excuse - such as it was - wouldn’t hold water for a second. Harry was convinced of that. And even if it _did_ , it would only lead to more awkward questions that he had literally zero idea how he was supposed to answer.

So, for the first time in their friendship, Harry’s unwavering loyalty to Hermione was severely tested.

For Hermione’s part, she seemed to be realising the foolhardiness of her plan, too. She was visibly trembling, looking down at her slippers and biting her bottom lip in her worry. She wasn’t a girl who got into any sort of trouble, let alone court it as she had now. This was new territory for her, and her uncertainty and inexperience made her vulnerable to mistakes.

Not that either had much of a chance to make a mistake. Professor McGonagall was already up and waiting for them when they arrived. Evidently, Mrs Norris had raced along ahead of them to communicate the crime to her in her cat Animagus form. Harry was mildly curious as to how _that_ actually worked, but such frivolous notions were driven from his head as soon as he saw the expression on his former guardian's face.

For she was utterly _furious_.

Never, not once in their relationship, in any of her incarnations in Harry’s life, had he ever seen Minerva McGonagall so beside herself with anger. She glowered at them, breathing heavily like a dragon about to strike. The comparison drove Harry to remember why they were here in the first place, and he was almost about to tell her everything, when the rant she had been storing finally burst free.

“I have _never_ been so angry with two students before!” she cried. “Two of you - out of bed - long after the curfew was in place. I’m disgusted. From my _own_ house no less. I thought both of you would have had more sense, knowing the dangers out here right now! _Explain yourselves_.”

It was the first time Hermione had ever failed to answer a question posed by a teacher. Her courage and bravado gone, she simply stared at her feet and made soft whimpering noises in her throat. Harry, too, had forgotten the contents of the English Language. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, a little bit like a codfish, but no words came out.

“I think I’ve a fair idea of what was going on,” Professor McGonagall continued. “Your fanciful heads have been filled with all the mystery of the _object_ being stored below the school right now, so you thought you’d go looking for it. Who’s idea was the suit of armour? Yours, Harry? Did you think it would keep you safe if you tried to pass Hagrid’s little dog?”

Harry blinked. It was an out. A stupid one, but a believable one. Harry could play the hero, and it might keep Hermione from getting into too much trouble.

“Okay, y-yes, it was my idea,” Harry mumbled, staring pointedly at Hermione when she looked on the verge of protest. “Ever since Sirius told me about it, and especially since we were attacked over Christmas, I’ve been thinking of trying to get to the Stone first. To keep it safe, you know.”

“Safe!” McGonagall thundered. “You think you have more chance of protecting the Stone than a giant dog, a raft of enchantments and complex magic performed by Albus Dumbledore himself? I didn’t think you that arrogant, Harry.”

Ah, so there _were_ a slew of other protections guarding the Stone. That was interesting, and Harry and Hermione had been right about that. They could discuss it later, but right now Harry had to play the foolish hero.

“I … I just thought, you know, because I was part of bringing down Voldemort with the Stone, maybe I could protect it in some way nobody has realised yet. I was worried … about Hermione, you know. I just wanted to keep her safe.”

McGonagall’s expression softened for a heartbeat, but it was back to stern stoniness just as quickly. This time, she turned it on Hermione.

“So I suppose Harry just roped you in to this idiotic scheme?” she asked briskly. “And you just went along with it?”

“He said he might need some help with a spell or two,” Hermione lied. “But I wasn’t about to let him go alone, and I didn’t think he’d listen to reason to _not_ go.”

“Then both of you are as culpable as the other,” Professor McGonagall frowned. “There is _nothing_ that gives a student the right to be out of bed after dark, if not for attending classes. Nothing at all. You shall both receive detentions, and fifty points will be taken from Gryffindor.”

“Fifty!” Harry cried. “That’s harsh.”

“Fifty _each_!” Professor McGonagall told him, breathily angrily through her long nose.

“Aunt Min - you _can’t_ -”

“It’s _Professor_ when we are on school time. And don’t tell me what I can and cant do.”

“But Hermione … she didn’t _do_ anything!” Harry protested hotly.

“Do not think me a fool, Harry,” McGonagall snapped. “I know that you two are trying to cover for the other, and Miss Granger’s thoughtlessness here is not becoming of her. But you are both guilty in this little caper, and you _both_ will be punished for it. Now get straight to bed, both of you. If I hear that you take even the slightest detour on the way back to the Common Room, that points deduction will be _tripled_!”

Harry and Hermione trudged back to bed in silence. Harry couldn’t sleep. A hundred points lost in a single night! He hadn’t thought about that part of the punishment. What would the other Gryffindors say when they saw the hourglass in the morning? How would they react when they heard that famous Harry Potter had gone seeking more glory, and cost them any chance they might have had at winning the House Cup?

He felt truly awful. But the fallout was worse than he’d imagined.

The first bleary-eyed Gryffindors thought there must have been a mistake, when they say the House Cup points hourglass the next day. Indeed, some Muggleborn students suggested that maybe the batteries needed changing. But by the time they’d explained to their Magicalborn counterparts just what batteries _were_ , the truth had started to filter out.

Harry Potter and Hermione Granger had been caught out of bed for a midnight tryst, and the whole school was soon talking about it.

Now Harry wasn’t entirely sure what a _tryst_ even was, but when he tried to ask Hermione about it she simply hushed him crossly, and ducked low to her cornflakes as though trying to hide in them. But it was a futile effort. She had been right about one thing, though, not a single student believed the story about them trying to get through the locked door on the Third Floor corridor.

“Stupid!”

“Idiots!”

“Bloody lovesick kids … a hundred points … all for a sloppy snog!”

Such comments followed Harry and Hermione wherever they went. Harry got it worse, on account of who he was, but Hermione came in for her fair share of nastiness, too. What Harry found most bizarre was that it was only the _girls_ of the castle who gave Hermione a hard time, and it was as much over the silly rumours as it was the points loss. Harry didn’t understand that at all. And some of the boys actually seemed _more_ interested in her now, which made Harry unreasonably cross. Students he didn’t know very well started trying to talk to Hermione, so Harry had taken to growling at them until they went away. He didn’t want his best friend any more upset than she already was.

For three days, Harry and Hermione were given the silent treatment by other Gryffindors. This was made worse by the Slytherins, who kept thanking them for their efforts when they passed either in the corridors. Draco Malfoy was particularly gleeful about all this, offering his services to help Harry lose even more points whenever he wanted to. He declared that his legend would be secured if he helped Gryffindor post the first _minus_ House Points score in the one thousand year history of Hogwarts.

So they kept their heads down. Neither drew attention to themselves in class; Harry worked harder, but more often alone, during Quidditch practice, seeing this as his best chance of recovering points for his House. In the evenings they worked quietly on homework pieces, choosing a cramped table in the corner away from everyone and struggling to see their parchments under the fluttering lights of the tiniest torches in the room.

On the morning of the fourth day, they each received a summons to detention that evening. They came from Professor McGonagall, but Harry also picked up a little note from Hagrid, on which he’d scribbled just two words.

 _She’s hatched_.

Harry and Hermione had relayed their plan in full to Hagrid two days ago, and after much cajoling he’d finally given in. He felt guilty that Harry and Hermione had gotten themselves so deliberately in trouble and was now duty-bound to repay them. In any case, Norbert - as he’d dubbed the baby dragon - had already singed off one of his eyebrows as he tried to sing it a lullaby.

That night, at eleven o’clock, Mr Filch collected Harry and Hermione from the Entrance Hall of the castle and led them down to Hagrid’s Cabin. He was waiting outside with Fang the boarhound, who was leashed up and ready to go. Hagrid was carrying a crossbow and a quiver of arrows, and Harry shuddered as he saw this image of battle-readiness.

“Dont be too friendly with ‘em,” Filch sneered. “They’re here to be punished. So punish ‘em.”

“They’re going into the Forest, that’s punishment enough,” Hagrid barked in reply. “Now get going. I’ll see them back up to the castle at dawn.”

“What’s left of them, you mean,” Filch leered back with a twisted grin. Then he turned and stomped back up the sloping lawns, his gas lamp swaying against the dark night.

“You alright, you two?” Hagrid asked as soon as Filch was out of earshot.

“Yes but, Hagrid, why do you have a crossbow?” Hermione asked in a shaky voice.

“I wasn’t lying about dark things going on in the Forest,” Hagrid replied, seriously. “Yeah we got to deliver baby Norbert to the other dragons, but we got to keep an eye out for whatever it is that’s lurking in the Forest. Filch is a mean old coot, but he ain’t wrong. It’s dangerous in here, so stick close to me and stay alert. And stay to the path. Come on.”

Hagrid strode over to a spot behind his hut, emerging with a wheelbarrow, inside which was the sleeping dragon. It was an ugly looking thing and even though the scudding clouds often obscured the bright moon overhead, Harry could just about make out what resembled a crumpled, black umbrella wrapped in the neon pink blanket, which was now blackened and fire-damaged. It was only the steam rising from its considerable nostrils that hinted to its being alive at all.

“Phew! That _stinks_!” Hermione whispered, pinching her nose against the acrid scent of Norbert.

“All babies smell like that from time to time,” Hagrid quirked happily. “She just needs changing.”

Harry blinked at the very startling idea of a dragon in a nappy. He turned to look up at Hagrid. “So, Norbert _is_ female.”

“Yeah … I think so,” Hagrid replied. “Hard to tell, as she tries to bite me if my hand gets too close to check.”

“Bite you?” Hermione quavered. “Even at such a young age?”

“Well yeah, but she’s just teething,” Hagrid returned blithely. “Come on, lets get this over with.”

The Forest was dark and silent. Every twig that cracked underfoot sounded out like snapping bone. Harry looked down to watch his step, careful as he’d twice almost trodden on Hermione’s toes where she was walking so close to him. As he was scanning the damp detritus of the Forest floor, Harry noticed something glittering and shiny dotted here and there.

“Hagrid - what is that?” Harry asked, pointing at a larger splattering on a tree stump as they passed.

“Unicorn blood,” Hagrid informed him. “Something’s been attacking them. That’s why the Forest is so dangerous right now. Don’t know what it is, and I’ve found two dead so far. Monstrous thing, it is, to slay a unicorn. Whatever’s doing it must have no morals, or no worries about leading a cursed life.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s powerful stuff, unicorn blood. Drinking it will keep you alive even if you’re at Death’s Door. But you’ve killed something pure to sustain yourself, so you’re cursed as soon as the first drop touches your lips. But there’s some as don’t mind that, Dark Creatures and Wizards and so on. And its them we need to watch out for.”

Harry tread with even more care and alertness now. Every sound, every creak of movement drew his attention and his wand. And with each abrupt snap of his head and tautening of his body, Hermione tightened her grip on his forearm. Harry hadn’t even noticed her taking it, but he wouldn’t dream of telling her to let go. Not only was he comforted by having her so near, where he could keep an eye on her, her presence also gave him the courage he might need, to fight whatever it was that was lurking just out of sight in the shadows.

They seemed to walk for hours, right into the very heart of the Forest. Harry was just about to give up on these caves, when Hagrid suddenly led them through a clearing to the base of a sheer rock face, that seemed to sprout up out of nowhere. The moon had broken through the canopy above, dappling the branches in stunning hues of grey and silver. There was a chilly mist hanging at knee-height all around the clearing, and Hagrid pushed the wheelbarrow through this to the mouth of the cave.

“Right, this is your bit,” Hagrid announced, stepping away from the wheelbarrow. “I don’t think I can bear to say goodbye to little Norby. You be good. Mummy will never forget you.”

For a wild moment, Harry thought Hagrid was about to bend down and give Norbert a goodbye kiss, but he seemed to reconsider a second later and instead moved away to the edge of the clearing.

Harry turned to Hermione. “Okay then. This is your moment. What’s the plan?”

“Well, we … er … take the baby inside, I suppose,” Hermione mumbled. “We’ll push it to the other dragons and see what happens.”

“And if the dragons attack us? What then?”

“We leg it!”

“Good plan,” Harry smirked. “Do you want to push the baby or lead the way?”

“I’ll push. It’ll be good practice for later life.”

Harry felt his heart leap into his throat as Hermione ducked her head away, embarrassed. Why did this keep happening to him? And what even was it? Maybe he was sick and needed medicine. He’d have to ask Sirius, or maybe Neville might know. Sirius would probably just tease him or something. Either way, Harry put it from his mind and walked cautiously towards the cave. The crooked mouth was jagged and foreboding, filling Harry with a sense of trepidation before he'd even set a single toe over the threshold.

Harry led Hermione to the cave entrance and looked inside. And he was immediately gripped by a paralysing fear.

For it was _utterly_ black inside.

There was not a chink of light to be seen, not even a pinprick. Harry was overcome with a thrill of this elemental terror. His neck prickled cold with it, his palms clammy as he considered the prospect … and wondered if he could even do _this_ part.

“Are you coming?” Hermione quirked jokingly from the palpable gloom ahead. Then she saw how Harry was frozen in fear and hurried back to him. “What’s wrong?”

A shameful heat rushed across Harry’s skin, and he was sure he was flushing all over. He had never felt more of a coward, more ashamed in his whole life, and in front of a girl who was showing her fearless side to boot. He could barely speak with the sense of disgrace flooding him.

“What is it? You can tell me,” Hermione whispered, quite gently, sounding surprised rather than judgemental.

Harry took a shuddering breath. “I … I … I’m _afraid_.”

“Of what?”

“The … the _dark_ ,” Harry confessed in a muted mutter. “I know it’s stupid, considering where I grew up and everything, but I’ve always been afraid of total darkness. I don’t know if I can go in there.”

Hermione looked at him with her soft eyes. She wasn’t pitying him, she wasn’t laughing at him as he expected … she was _understanding_. She didn’t even need to say it out loud.

“I know it’s scary,” she soothed. “But I’m here with you, and we’ll face it together. Here, take my hand.”

“You won’t let go?” Harry replied quietly.

“Not unless you want me to, or you feel comfortable enough.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” Hermione whispered faithfully.

She held out her hand and Harry slipped his digits between hers. Her skin was cool to the touch, and it doused the flames of shame raging over his own flesh. Hermione held on tight, squeezed encouragingly. Harry took strength from that, took a steeling breath … then took those first steps into the black unknown.

But they hadn’t gone more than three feet or so when they had to stop and draw breath. Or try to find another _way_ to breath, actually … for it absolutely _stunk_ in here!

Without thinking, Harry pulled his hand from Hermione’s grip to cover his nose. He was panicked in the dark for all of three seconds though, as Hermione instinctively snatched her forearm around his just to reaffirm that she was still there with him, something Harry was eminently grateful for.

“What _is_ that?” Hermione cried, her voice funny where she had pinched her nose. “It’s _disgusting!”_

She wasn’t wrong. The whole place was dense with a dank, rotting smell. The air was stagnant, as if the very particles were putrefying all around them. Stench of decay clung to their nostrils, making their breathing heavy and laboured as they struggled to find the will to move forward.

“I don’t know!” Harry choked back. “But it smells like something _died_ in here.”

“What could have died to cause _this_ bad a smell?”

She had to ask …

Suddenly, with the most abrupt lack of warning Harry thought possible, there was a feral, guttural sort of roar, the beat of powerful wings … and a gout of flame struck at them from a point high above.

“Dragon!” Harry yelled, tugging Hermione clear of the flame just in time. “Run!”

So they did, mindlessly and with no idea of direction. The huge beast swirled and shrieked above them, blasting fire in long streaks of red and amber. It threw parts of the vast chamber into stark relief, revealing pillars and statues and monoliths, one of which Harry dragged Hermione behind, pinning her in place as a burst of flame broke against the stone and flanked them like two searing hot barriers.

“What are we going to do?” Hermione yelped.

“I don’t know!” Harry called back, as the dragon soared past and screeched angrily yet again.

“We have to get back to the baby!” Hermione cried. “It’s our best hope!”

“Where did you leave it?” Harry yelled over another blast of fire.

“Just behind us!” Hermione shouted in reply. “Grab my hand, and when I say run … just _run!”_

Harry reached out and Hermione snapped her fingers back into his. He could feel the pattern of her frantic breathing as her shoulders heaved up and down. She waited, and waited, and then …

“Now!”

They raced out and took off into the darkness. The dragon must have sensed that and shot another arrow of fire at them. Harry saw the wheelbarrow just up ahead, illuminated by the incandescent flame, and his heart was filled with hope that they might just get out of this alive …

And then, up ahead … a heavy crash suddenly blocked their path.

For the dragon had landed right in front of them, it’s nostrils flickering with the fire building there …

Harry didn’t even think, didn’t even have time to … he just pushed Hermione out of the way, as the snort of flame erupted from the dragon at such high speed that there was no possible chance of escape …

“No!”

Harry spoke the word in complete, desperate instinct. The fire - which was a moment from hitting Harry square in the face - veered up and over his head … and made no more impression than a gentle Summer breeze on his scalp as it passed him.

A pregnant silence filled the place, punctuated alternately by the dragon’s heavy puffs, Hermione’s little whimpers, and the beat of Harry’s rampant heart, that he was sure was the loudest sound of the lot. He didn’t even have to think about what had happened … somehow, he just knew.

It was as if he’d _always_ known … and he knew what to do next, too. Knew that he could _talk_ to this dragon, as though it were his native language, but that he had somehow, inexplicably, forgotten how to speak it _._

First snakes … now dragons, too. Harry wondered what other secret languages he held inside.

He took a cautious stride forward, and the echo of his footstep carried to Hermione, who shrieked out in blind terror.

“Harry - be _careful!”_

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Harry hushed back. “She doesn’t want to hurt us. We just _frightened_ her, that’s all.”

“We … frightened _her!”_ Hermione breathed in astonishment. “How do you _know_ that?”

“I just _do_ , I cant explain it,” Harry replied through the darkness.

He eased himself down to sit on his ankles and looked at the dragon in front of him. He could see her massive skull, lit up in flashes of red and ochre, as she puffed out what Harry was now _certain_ were startled, unsure breaths. The realisation was fundamentally astonishing to him. He looked up at the dragon’s hulking frame.

“It’s alright,” he soothed to her. “We’re not here to hurt you. Come here.”

“Come _here!??”_ Hermione cried shrilly. “What are you _doing!?_ Have you lost your _mind!?_ ”

“Sshh, a minute!” Harry implored.

He couldn’t see Hermione, but he could _sense_ her huffing crossly at him, wherever she was, probably with her hands planted on her hips, as was her way. But then the dragon starting _moving_. She lumbered forwards, not at all gracefully, until she was practically nose-to-nose with the boy on his knees in the dark. His tiny head - which she could crush to ash with a single stroke - against her massive skull, which was about the size of a double-decker bus.

But the boy was the one in complete control.

Harry reached up carefully, and touched the dragon’s skin. It was _crazily_ soft, that was the first surprise. More like feather than scale as Harry tracked his hand across it. But then, _something_ else hit him - a burst of sad emotion that most definitely was not his own. It was so heartsick and melancholy that Harry felt like crying with it.

Just then, Hermione spoke out. “Harry! Are you still alive? Or has the dragon _eaten_ you?”

Harry chuckled at that, and the sensation thawed his heart.

“It’s okay, come closer,” Harry whispered to the darkness. “Follow my voice.”

“I don’t need to, I can _see_ , you know.”

Harry jumped slightly, startled that Hermione was so close behind him. So close, in fact, that her hot breath tickled his earlobe.

“Are you … _talking_ … to _her_?” Hermione whispered gently.

“In a way,” Harry nodded. “But it’s more like I know what she’s feeling, and I’m trying to tell her it’s alright, but it’s not _words_ I’m using. I know I’m doing a horrible job of explaining this. Just trust me that I know what I’m doing.”

“I _do_ trust you,” Hermione replied, her voice sounding almost surprised that this fact was ever in doubt. “So … what is _she_ feeling? Are you sure she’s a _she_?”

“Positive,” Harry grinned in the dark. “I think she might have swatted me across the room if I had suggested she was a boy.”

The dragon snorted then, as if affronted by the notion. It was a huff worthy of Hermione, herself, and it made the girl giggle as she heard it.

“Well, I understood _that!”_ she laughed. “But what else is she feeling?”

“That’s the thing,” Harry replied sadly. “I _know_ the feeling running through her. I think we _both_ do. It’s heartbreaking to say it … but I think she’s _lonely._ ”

The dragon mewled as if in conformation and Hermione let a pitying sort of sigh escape her throat. She cautiously traced her hand up and eased it onto the dragon’s snout, and the great creature actually _turned_ into the touch, as if seeking comfort from it.

“Harry!” Hermione whispered, low and miserably. “I can _feel_ that!”

“You can too?” he replied in amazement.

“Yes … oh, _Harry …_ she’s so _sad!_ … so upset! Is there anything we can do to help?”

“Fetch our makeshift pram,” Harry instructed. “I’ll try and tell her what we’re offering.”

Hermione did as she was told and Harry tried, not at all eloquently, to communicate their intentions to the dragon. When Hermione returned, the huge animal sniffed cautiously at the wheelbarrow, causing the whelp inside to wake and call out. Hermione backed away, unsure, and fell into Harry’s lap, where he held her still. It was best, he thought, not to spook a potential new mother and daughter as they met for the first time.

For a moment, it seemed like it wouldn’t work, and Harry was quickly scheming a way to escape. But then, a series of plodding crashes from nearby announced the arrival of the male dragon. The female greeted him with welcoming fire, and Harry saw, from the flash of light, the wingless state of this even more gigantic creature.

But being wingless had robbed the dragon of none of it’s hunting skills. He deposited the carcass of a dead deer at the feet of his mate, who immediately began tearing shreds of flesh to feed to the hungry whelp.

“Oh, _Harry_! Look!” Hermione cooed. “I think we’ve done it! What are you sensing from them?”

“Gratitude,” Harry grinned. “Deep, pure gratitude!”

“Come on, we can slip away while they are occupied.”

“Um … you’ll need to get up off me, first.”

“Then let me go.”

Her tone was foreign to Harry. It wasn’t a plea for release, but something else entirely, in a language Harry very definitely _didn’t_ understand. What he _did_ know was that releasing Hermione from the grip his arms had around her wasn’t entirely something he wanted to do. She was warm, and there was something comforting about the solidness of her body atop his. He wouldn’t mind if she was this close again, not that he could imagine a situation where _that_ would happen.

They would just have to have more adventures, just in case a chance to rescue her cropped up again.

But for now, the next challenge was to get away from the dragons unharmed. Hermione eased herself up and tugged Harry to his feet. They held hands in the dark, hurrying away towards the glimmer of starlight beckoning from the cave mouth some distance away. Hermione led the way, darting through that stench that neither noticed anymore, and back to Hagrid, who was waiting for them.

“Well?” he asked anxiously. “How did it go?”

“They’ve taken Norbert,” Hermione announced gleefully. “Harry was _brilliant_ , absolutely _amazing_! It’s all worked out perfectly.”

Well, almost …

For as Hermione was singing Harry’s praises, he looked over her shoulder. There, on the cusp of the forest clearing, a bright puddle of shining unicorn blood caught Harry’s eye. And hunched over it … a hooded figure _drinking_ from the puddle.

“AArrgghhh!”

Harry’s scream startled everyone, including the hooded figure, who looked Harry right in the eyes. But Harry could only hold his gaze for a second, as Hagrid scooped him up under one arm - taking Hermione under the other - and charging away from the scene, thundering through the forest like a force of nature. He didn’t stop until they had reached the courtyard leading to the Entrance Hall.

Finally, Hagrid stopped to draw breath, and plonked Harry and Hermione back to their feet. “Get inside! Now! Don’t argue.”

“Hagrid!” Harry breathed. “What _was_ that?”

“Was it the thing that’s killing the unicorns?” Hermione added.

“Of course it is, and why didn’t I think of it sooner!” Hagrid cried, slapping his dustbin-lid sized hand to his forehead.

“Think of what?” Harry implored.

“What’s going on?”

Harry turned in utter surprise to see the owner of a new voice striding towards them.

“Sirius? Lyra? What are you doing here?”

“We heard about your detention,” Sirius revealed, as he came to halt at Hagrid's side. “Minerva didn’t believe your story and neither did we. We thought at _least_ you'd gone for a secret snog! She asked a few questions of your classmates, and it didn’t take long for Mr _Long_ bottom to confess. Where’s the dragon?”

“We delivered it into the care of dragons in the Forest,” Harry explained. “But there’s more.”

And he explained everything they’d seen. Sirius listened and absorbed in deep seriousness. Then Harry had a question of his own.

“So, why are you really here? If you know about the dragon, there must be more to this visit.”

“Blame me,” Lyra stepped in. “Your parents were able to find the report about the rogue dragon breeders, and the name of the dealer raised a major red flag with me. His name is Jopari, and I’ve heard that before.”

“Where?” asked Hermione.

“It was the name given to Will’s father by a tribe of Tartars,” Lyra confessed. “It’s an alias he uses when he dips his toe into the magical world here. _He_ set up the finding of the dragon eggs … and he’s helped Tom Riddle get a _body_ in this world. Come on, let's get a cuppa and I’ll tell you all about my meeting with Will Parry.”


	20. The Fifth Element

****

**A/N:** Nearly done on AOA Vol 2. Two more updates should do it. Thanks for reading. Muchos gracias.

* * *

Lyra’s confession was stark and shocking. It left Harry scratching his head for the next few weeks. Whatever he had expected to learn about Lyra’s childhood lover, it certainly wasn’t this. And as the revelations came thick and fast, they hit far too close to home not only for Harry’s liking … but _Sirius’_ , too.

For it turned out that Will Parry was not only a high-ranking officer in the British Secret Service … he was also a _Squib_. As heartbroken as Lyra over the way they were wrenched apart, he would later lurch from one failed relationship to another, never able to form a bond as deep with any other woman again. This led to bitterness, and an anger towards Lyra that would drive him into the hands of the Magisterium, so that he may find her again and bring closure to his suffering.

And in this world, one of the Magisterium's incarnations was GCHQ, and Will's handler in this organisation - an accountant named Gerald Prewett - was closely related to _Molly_ Prewett. It was through this connection that the plot to get a dragon egg to Hagrid was initially hatched.

“I should have realised sooner,” Sirius told Harry, as they took a walk around the Hogwarts grounds the morning following Harry’s detention in the Forest. “As soon as Lyra told me that Will had a sort of _special_ power, I should have put two-and-two together.”

“Ah!” Harry nodded as he understood. “You mean the way he was able to use that _Subtle Knife_ thing that Lyra described?”

Sirius nodded back. “Exactly. He was able to feel his way through worlds, the same as Lyra was. He could interact with Dust, which has a close link to magic that I’ve spent years exploring more deeply. I’m not _totally_ irresponsible in my life, you see. I do actually _do_ something productive with my days!”

“You’ll have to let me know when you do, because I’ve never seen that!” Harry teased, causing Sirius to ruffle his hair fondly. “So, is _Lyra_ a Squib, too?”

“I’ve wondered about that,” Sirius pondered. “It’s entirely possible, but she has always had a deep relationship to Dust. It _chose_ her for not just one great destiny, but several. An entire _life_ of destinies, I imagine. There was her own as a child, then another in her early twenties, then she got involved with _our_ story when Riddle and I entered her world, now she’s brought Hermione here for whatever destiny you two share. She’s special and important, is Lyra Belacqua.”

Harry stopped and looked up at Sirius in sudden, earth-shattering astonishment.

“You’re in _love_ with her, aren’t you?”

Sirius faltered in his step for the first time. “Don’t be silly. Of course I’m not.”

“Yes you are!” Harry exclaimed. “I can see it in your eyes, the way your face lights up when you say her name.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Sirius retorted, looking at a spot over Harry’s shoulder. “I’m a free spirit, just like Lyra. Falling in love isn’t for people like us.”

“With an attitude like _that_ it’s no wonder you haven’t noticed it!” Harry cried. “And I bet she’s just the same.”

“And what makes you so sure those things you just said mean I’m in love?” Sirius quipped. “What makes you such an expert all of a sudden?”

“Because … it’s the way Dad looks when he talks about Mum,” Harry informed him casually. “And Mum’s eyes go all glossy when she looks at Dad when he’s doing something totally normal and everyday, and he doesn’t know she’s watching him, and adoring him. And it’s the way … the way that -”

“The way what?”

Harry swallowed hard. “Nothing.”

“No, say it,” Sirius pushed.

But Harry _couldn’t_ say it, he couldn’t even comprehend it. But the comparison was right there … he’d just made it. So he couldn’t deny it. But it was impossible, really. Why _would_ she? There was no need for her to, and it didn’t make any sort of sense. And _he’d_ certainly not done anything to deserve it, and was surely not worthy of such a look … a look like _that_.

But he wasn’t about to blurt this all out to Sirius, not when he had him on the run about his own love for Lyra.

“Forget about that, this is about you being in love with Miss Lyra,” Harry returned firmly. “Just admit it.”

“I’m not going to admit something that isn’t true,” Sirius replied.

“But it is,” Harry countered. “You missed her when you were apart, and you couldn’t wait to see her again. And now you cant stop being near her. She makes your heart race and your palms sweaty. And she leaves you breathless with her talents and stunned by her prettiness. And all you want to do is protect her and look after her and make sure she’s warm and happy.”

“Are you sure we are still talking about _Lyra_?” Sirius quipped with a sparkling grin at Harry, who flushed in his embarrassment but held his ground.

“Yes. Am I wrong?”

Sirius sighed and allowed himself to consider it. “Well … no. I don’t suppose you are. But I cant be. I don’t fall in love. I’ve never met the right woman.”

“Or maybe you have, and you are just an eternal child too scared to give into it,” Harry volleyed back.

“How old are you again?” Sirius chuckled. “You’re not supposed to be giving _me_ relationship advice.”

“I’m just trying to coax your _d_ _æ_ _mon_ back out. I think that’s the bit that’s in love with Lyra, and you’re trapping it inside.”

Sirius looked down with a deep look of respect. “You know, you’re growing to be a fine young man, do you know?”

“Okay, let’s not get all mushy and start braiding each other's hair!” Harry guffawed, pushing Sirius away as he tried to wrap an arm around him. “Tell me about how Will Parry is a Squib. I thought they had _no_ magic, but he obviously has a bit.”

“There are gradients of Squib, just as there are gradients of wizard,” Sirius explained. “Just as you and your Hermione are super talented, there will be others who are less so.”

“Like Ron Weasley,” Harry suggested, trying to ignore the way his heart rocketed around his chest as Sirius used the term _your Hermione_. It needed to stop doing that.

“Exactly,” Sirius went on. “So there are some Squibs who have no magic at all, and some who have a little bit. This often takes the more cerebral forms of supernatural powers - telepathy, psychic talents, clairvoyance and mediumship, for example. Will clearly has a great command of one or more of these.”

“Mediumship? Like seeing ghosts?”

“Dont scoff like ghosts are unreal,” Sirius frowned. “There are ghosts _here_ , after all. But much supernatural activity can be explained by other worlds coming close to our own and such events being misinterpreted. Then there are people who temporarily cross through portals between worlds.”

“Like you.”

“Like me, but that was through a purposely made portal, likely cut by Will’s Subtle Knife,” Sirius corrected. “But natural portals occur, too, though they tend to be crazily unstable. They might even just be bubbles that will float from one reality to another, and deposit the poor soul stuck inside to a completely different location in their own world to the one they left.”

“This is all very confusing,” Harry moaned, rubbing his spinning head.

“I know, but all we need to focus on is _this_ world,” said Sirius. “And, more importantly, how Gerald Prewett fits into all this.”

“Molly’s second cousin, you said,” Harry nodded. “You don’t think _she’s_ involved, do you?”

“I’d certainly hope not, but I’d never rule it out,” Sirius replied. “I don’t want to think that she purposefully sent Ron into the path of a dragon egg, knowing that he might pick it up to give to Hagrid, but stranger things have happened. Though Molly may be a little unhinged when it comes to _me_ , I seriously doubt she’d go that far.”

“Then what do you think happened?”

“The simple explanation is that Riddle and his group had to get to Hagrid, to tempt him into giving away the secret of subduing Fluffy,” Sirius began. “All creatures of that breed are subdued in a different way, and this is only discovered by the one who rears them.”

“In this case, Hagrid,” Harry nodded.

“Precisely. So he had to be tempted with something very special. It had to be an inducement powerful enough for him to betray Dumbledore. And what has he always wanted?”

“A dragon!”

“A dragon,” Sirius parroted. “And anyone who gets Hagrid talking about himself can find this out.”

“Yeah, even Ron did it,” Harry commented eagerly. Then his face dropped. “Oh no. Is _that_ how you think the other side found out, too? They followed Ron, and just eavesdropped until Hagrid gave the information away?”

Sirius nodded. “It’s what _I’d_ do. Secrets don’t last long at Hogwarts. It wouldn’t have taken more than a few weeks for someone to find out that there was a giant, three-headed dog on the Third Floor. Kids are the most curious species on the planet. And who’s the Gamekeeper here? The only one huge enough to control a beast like Fluffy?”

“Hagrid! Of course! So they just had to wait for a student to ask him about it, and he’d be so proud and flattered that he’d give the information away!”

“Or, in this case, a friendless boy casually asked what Hagrid would like the most in the world, so that he could try to give him a token of thanks for befriending him. The detail about how to _subdue_ Fluffy slips out and the rest is history.”

“But why try and get the dragon egg into Hogwarts?” Harry considered. “If they _had_ the knowledge about Fluffy, why go to all the trouble of bringing a dragon into the school?”

“Have a guess,” Sirius quipped. “If you knew how to get past the first guard to an object you wanted, what would be the next step?”

“You’d want to see what else was there protecting it?” Harry offered. “Only … you wouldn’t want anyone else to know that you could get past the first obstacle … so you’d need a diversion.”

“And one such diversion has failed already this year, if you remember.”

Harry screwed up his face. Then his eyes shot open.

“The troll at Halloween! It was a diversion, so the thief could see what was guarding the trapdoor!”

“Good boy!” Sirius boomed. “And if a lumbering troll caused such uproar, just imagine how much worse an uncontrolled _dragon_ would be!”

“It would be chaos!” Harry agreed. “So, as long as there are eyes on the Third Floor the Stone is safe?”

“We can only hope so,” Sirius replied. “The dragon would have occupied everyone, leaving the way clear for the robbery to happen.”

"And Gerald Prewett?" Harry queried.

"Knew that Ron was friendly with Hagrid, knew that Ron has a brother who is a dragon expert, and saw the chain to deliver the dragon into the school - or took the steps to make it happen," Sirius explained. It was all very neat. 

“But we dealt with the dragon. It’s out of the way.”

“And very skilfully you did it, too,” Sirius grinned. “Lyra tells me you and Hermione were surrogate parents for a few hours!”

“Yeah - to a dangerous magical creature!” Harry laughed, before adding without thinking. “I hope our next baby is a little less vicious.”

Sirius chuckled down at him. “Just give it a few years, though, yeah? You’d give your poor Mum a heart attack if you brought one of _those_ home!”

Harry gulped hard and let Sirius lead him back up to the school.

* * *

It was a good thing that Harry had Quidditch and school to occupy him over the next few weeks. If he was tired from hours of flying in the rain, or weighed down carrying books - mostly for Hermione - from the library, he couldn’t think too much about the events of the Forest. He was constantly on the alert for more signs of diversions, but as the days passed without incident Harry became more relaxed and his worries retreated to white noise.

As Easter approached, the coldness towards Harry and Hermione thawed a little. This was helped by Harry helping Gryffindor to a stunning Quidditch victory over Hufflepuff and Hermione earning extra credits in all her classes - except Potions - which put Gryffindor right back into the race for the House Cup. Their misdemeanors were soon largely forgotten and the school was back to being perfectly pleasant to them.

But Harry started having disturbing dreams. He kept having flashing visions of worlds crashing together with sparks of violent green lightening, which seemed to make his old scar prickle. He put this down to sowilo being associated with lightening and that it was recognising it’s kin in Harry’s dreams, but he wished it would leave him alone. He needed all his energy to get through the mountain of extra homework that was piled on them over the Easter holidays, and that was enough of a nightmare to be going on with.

When Hermione wasn’t reciting the twelve uses of dragons blood, or practising wand movements, or recording the passing of Jupiter through the Twelfth House, she joined Harry in some mild speculation about how the Philosopher’s Stone might be protected downstairs. It didn’t follow that it would all be random, so there must have been a pattern to the defences.

And if there was one thing Hermione did for fun, it was beat riddles.

“I think we have to assume it’s an alchemical design,” she mused one evening. She was drying her hair in front of the Common Room fire - which was always a lengthy process - so Harry was back to labelling her work for her, adding descriptions to her wonky drawing of the Dragon’s Tongue flower.

“Why’s that?” Harry asked.

“There’s esoteric power in symmetry,” Hermione told him. “The Philosopher’s Stone is the goal of alchemy, and the process to create it is devilishly tricky. It makes sense that to increase the power of the protections, a sort of proxy _alchemical opus_ might be incorporated into the protections.”

“That makes sense,” Harry nodded, impressed. “So, what are the stages of this opus?”

“There are seven, broken up into three broader stages,” Hermione began. “According to Professor Lyndy Abraham, the stages are the Nigredo, Albedo and Rubedo. Black, white and red. The first five steps of the opus are the Nigredo, then one each for the other two.”

“So the first five protections will take place in the dark, we can assume,” Harry pondered. “Well, Fluffy and the trapdoor would be dark for stage one.”

“Yes, but it’s more complicated than that,” Hermione continued. “Each of the seven stages has a name, is associated with a natural element, and tests a particular aspect of the alchemist.”

“That sounds complex.”

“It is, which is why few people ever attempt it.”

“Mmmm. My mum once said it was the most complete and powerful of _all_ magic,” Harry commented. “It is the Noblest Art, manipulating nature and all that. I don’t know about that. I think combat magic is far more powerful.”

Hermione tutted pityingly at him. “Why does that not surprise me! You’re such a boy.”

“I never claimed to be anything else!” Harry quipped. “So, to get to the Stone, you reckon the thief will have to get past tasks of earth, air, fire and water?”

“I’m surmising so,” Hermione sniffed. “An alchemist is a natural master of fire - as he uses it as a transmuting substance - but to ascend to the Higher Work he must master all four elements, to gain access to the _fifth_.”

“There’s a _fifth_ element?”

“Yes,” Hermione replied, then she looked away shyly.

“What is it?” Harry pressed, sitting up.

“I’m not sure I should say. Lyra wasn’t sure if I should or not.”

“I thought we weren’t going to have any secrets anymore,” Harry frowned. “What can’t you tell me? Or why?”

“I cant, because the fifth element is all about why I’m here … and why I’m here is all about _you_.”

Harry swallowed hard at that, he always did whenever Hermione mentioned it. The fact that his best friend had crossed worlds to meet him still left him astounded and speechless, but they still didn’t know why she’d been compelled to do it. Or, at least, _Harry_ didn’t.

But now, it seemed, Hermione knew more about it. And Harry wasn’t about to let it go.

“What is it? Tell me … please.”

Hermione’s resistance to Harry’s pleading was only about as strong as his to hers, which was as brittle as sugar paper.

“Okay, this is the thing,” Hermione began, hitching her knees to her chest. “After that snake attacked us in Oxford, I wanted to know why it kept going for _me_. Even after you were goading it, I was still the one it wanted. That didn’t make sense. So I got Lyra to ask the alethiometer about it.”

“Her truth reader thingy?” Harry asked. “And what did it say?”

Hermione blushed again. “It said … it said … that _I_ had a special power … over _you_. It said that, somehow, I could awaken a special magic in you, one that controlled all the elements. It was called _quintessence_ , and when I looked that up, it led me to all this alchemy stuff, which led me back to the Stone.”

Harry blinked hard. “So, what, I have this _quintessence_ stuff … _in me_?”

Hermione nodded. “Only nobody knows what it looks like, or even what form it takes. Only that it is ridiculously potent power. I think we saw a bit of it, when you cast those runes at the snake.”

Harry remembered the day, the way his fingers trembled as a force from way deep down rose to the surface. It felt comforting that it had a name, but confusing too, as Harry had no idea how he was supposed to summon it again.

“So how do I harness it?” he asked.

“That’s the thing,” Hermione began quietly. “ _You_ don’t … but _we_ do.”

“I’m not sure I know what that means,” Harry mumbled, his face heating rapidly.

“Neither do I,” Hermione echoed. “But we can find out … together. It’s like we are two halves of the same thing ... a sort of _symmetry,_ like I said just now. That’s how the alethiometer described it, anyway. You bring parts and I bring parts. Symmetry. And together we can tap into this great power to do … _something_. Only it didn’t say what. But that was why Riddle attacked me more than you ... he wants me out of the way, so that I can't help bring this power out in you.”

"But we don't know what it is or how to use it."

"Not right now, no."

“Typically cryptic,” Harry moaned. “Just like when I saw that image of you in the Mirror of Erised when I first came across it. Maybe you were looking into the Mirror in _your_ world at the same time, and it somehow ignited this connection we have. You sparked something in me, and I made the Mirror work.”

Hermione gasped and suddenly jumped up, frantic.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Harry pressed.

"Harry! What if you are right?" Hermione cried. "What if, somehow, we _activated_ the mirror by looking into it at the same time? What if it doesn't show an image of your heart's desire, but your heart's desire _played out_ in another world? You looked into it and saw _me_ , the person you need to ignite this power in you, when I was using the sister mirror in Lyra's flat. What if that turned the mirror into a _window,_ one that allowed you to see your heart's desire in the flesh ... or to see how to get to it?"

“So what if I did?” Harry quizzed, ignoring the violent flutterings that erupted all through him, as they came oh so close to addressing the vision they had both had, and the monumental meanings behind it.

“Well, if _you_ saw a connection to your power, in the form of _me_ , what if someone else from my world looked at a source of their power _here,_ too … it would work the same way!”

“I’m totally lost,” Harry confessed.

“Riddle, Harry!” Hermione shrieked. “Tom Riddle! He lives in my world now, but some form of him is here. We saw it as his snake, but … oh, _Harry!_ … what if _he_ was that thing hiding under a hood in the Forbidden Forest! What if he can inhabit human bodies, too, but needs unicorn blood to sustain himself?”

“I think I see what you’re saying,” Harry yelped, as the horror prickled icy tendrils across his skin. “If he looked into the Mirror at the same time in both worlds, he’d be able to see everything here!”

“And see the obstacles to the Stone!"

"Because that’s where the Mirror has gone! Passed all the other defences to the place where the Stone is being kept!”

“And Dumbledore thinks the visions will distract the thief -”

“- but Riddle is _possessing_ the thief, and uses the Mirror as a window -”

"- and as his power is trapped in the Stone -" 

“- he'd feel it if it was close enough, and could lead the thief to find it!" Harry cried in triumph. Then he frowned. "But surely we’d see if someone was being possessed around here. They’d have another face in the back of their head, or something.”

“We wouldn't see if they were wearing a hood … or a _turban!”_

_“Quirrell!”_

_* * *_

“Professor Quirrell is not at Hogwarts this evening,” Professor Snape told them silkily, as they asked breathlessly for him at the door to the staff room. It had been a long run all the way from the top of Gryffindor Tower.

“Where has he gone?” Harry panted.

“Not that it is any of your business,” Snape replied icily. “But he and Professor Dumbledore are currently heading to London, to collect a _werewolf_ to bring to Hogwarts.”

Hermione squeaked. “Why are they bringing a werewolf here?!”

“For the Defence Against the Dark Arts NEWT exams,” Snape sniped back. “This one is quite benign, not as _lupine_ as at the full moon. Useful for some hands-on identifying experience for our fifth years. Besides, it is the only work a man like _him_ can get.”

“And when will they be back?” asked Harry, ignoring the loaded and rather personal waspishness to Snape's tone.

“Quirrell left last night, and the Headmaster is on his way to join him in London as we speak. What is the meaning of your sudden urge to speak to him?”

“I had a question about our upcoming exam,” Hermione cut in briskly. “I wanted to check a fact before our practical. But it will wait. Come on, Harry.”

“Don't go getting caught out of bed now,” Snape taunted with a curling sneer. “I would've thought you'd lost Gryffindor quite enough House points for one year.”

Hermione ignored that and dragged Harry away, but she didn’t head back to the Common Room, or even towards the library.

When they finally stopped, they were facing the locked door on the Third Floor corridor.

Hermione took out her wand, and tapped the lock. “ _Alohomora!”_

And the lock opened with a little click.

“Hermione!” Harry shrieked. “What are you doing? You’ll get us expelled!”

“That doesn’t matter now, Harry!” Hermione cried, taking a step closer to him. “None of it does. Don’t you _see_? Quirrell isn’t in London! He’s _down there_ , probably half way to the Stone already!”

“You think he tricked Dumbledore, sent him on a wild goose chase to London?” Harry breathed in horror.

“Oh the reason may be valid, but it’s the perfect opportunity to get Dumbledore out of the way,” Hermione explained. “Why didn’t they travel together? Quirrell said he went on ahead, but he was probably just hiding in the Forest, topping up on the unicorn blood in readiness for his attempt.”

“And as soon as Dumbledore was out of the way, he came right here,” Harry completed for her. “So now what? I assume telling a teacher isn’t part of your agenda?”

“No, there’s no time for that, and who’s to say they could even help?” Hermione hissed. “Quirrell and Voldemort have probably passed their tests already. No, Harry … _we_ have to go after the Stone ... alone! Right now!”

“We do?”

“I get it now!” Hermione sang. “I came here to turn this power on in you, this power that can defeat Voldemort or Tom Riddle or whatever he wants to call himself. And I think this power will help you find the Stone before him, so I have to get you to where it is. Which means …”

“Going down …” Harry gulped. “Into the dark again.”

“But I’ll be with you again,” Hermione soothed, stepping so close they were practically touching noses. “I’ll be your light in the darkest of places, the shield against the things that frighten you. I’ll protect you as long as I can … and then you can kick Thomas Riddle right back into the next world!”

Harry drew steely courage from Hermione’s words, took a deep breath as he watched her pupils dilating so close to his own, and placed his hand onto the once-locked door handle. He pushed his glasses back up his sweaty nose with his free hand, then he turned back to Hermione once more.

“I’ll have you know, I’m only doing this so I can _finally_ hear this famous angelic singing voice of yours,” he grinned. “Because there’s no way _I’m_ warbling a lullaby to Fluffy when we get in there!”

Then he opened the door and stepped through fearlessly, as Hermione laughed and followed him inside.


	21. An Opus Alcymicum

As it turned out, Hermione did, indeed, have an angelic singing voice. Harry was almost as mesmerised by it as Fluffy was, as his best friend sang the enormous dog - and all three of its heads - into a soporific slumber.

_* “The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea_

_In a beautiful pea-green boat,_

_They took some honey, and plenty of money,_

_Wrapped up in a five-pound note.” *_

(* _copyright Edward Lear, The Random House Book of Poetry for Children (1983)*)_

Harry listened open-mouthed as Hermione sang, sounding as much like the divine as Harry could ever conceive. He was a little cross that she’d never demonstrated just _how_ beautiful her voice was, and he wondered if he could purloin her into singing him some _Weird Sisters_ songs if he asked her to. That was a request for later, though. For now, he just stared at her, until she pointed angrily to the trap door and sent Harry back to task.

“Oh, right. Sorry,” Harry muttered, hurrying forwards and tugging open the heavy leaden door.

It was very dark inside. It wasn’t a sheer drop, as Harry had wildly expected, but a set of crude steps roughly hewn from the rock and soil. Harry couldn’t see through the darkness to where the steps might lead. He was held fast by the prospect of the thick gloom ahead, but then Hermione’s words echoed in his mind.

_I will be your light._

And he took power from that greater than anything Harry had ever known. It was just the dark, and he had the _strongest_ light just behind him, protecting him.

There was nothing to be afraid of … not while Hermione was near.

So he marched forward with his new courage as a sort of Hermione-shaped battering ram. It drove back the shadows, made them cower into the crevices of the tunnel as Harry hurried along it. There was a growl from behind, as Hermione stopped singing and jogged up to Harry’s side. He stopped in the dark to wait for her.

“Pretty song,” he quipped. “What made you come up with _that_?”

“I’m not sure,” Hermione confessed, as she drew her wand and whispered _lumos_.

Harry huffed. “Now why didn’t _I_ think of that?”

Hermione laughed under the flickering wand-light. “I do the thinking, you do the feeling in this partnership.”

“So what were you thinking, when you picked that lullaby? It was very nice … and you do sing like a … well … something that sings really prettily.”

Harry didn’t want to call her an angel. There wasn’t a grain of dishonesty in the name, but he was suddenly painfully shy of saying something like that. He didn’t know what she might think if he did, and the risk of her running back up the tunnel just wasn’t worth it right now.

“Thank you, Harry!” Hermione gushed under her wand. “And, well, I just had a sudden thought about hoping Hedwig and Pap were okay - an _owl and a pussycat_ , you know - and the poem just came to me. But I made up the melody myself.”

“Well, it was very good.”

“Thanks! But don’t ask me to sing it again, because I wont!”

“Spoilsport,” Harry smirked. “Come on, let’s see what we come up against first.”

A minute later, and Harry wished he hadn’t asked.

“What in the name of Merlin is _this_!” Harry cried.

For they were looking at a long corridor, equally as rugged as the stairway they’d been steadily descending. They were a long way under the school now, and the smell of damp and vegetation was almost overpowering. By the light of Hermione’s wand they could see the entire corridor criss-crossed by thick vines or …

“Cobwebs?” Harry wavered, drawing his wand in case a herd of Acromantula suddenly stampeded towards them.

“No, they aren’t cobwebs, Harry!” Hermione whispered lowly. “These are the tendrils of a plant. And if I’m not mistaken … stand back!”

“Devil’s Snare!” Harry yelped, as Hermione sent a jet of bluebell flames at a tendril that had snaked its way around Harry’s calf. They stepped back to consider the situation.

“ _Lumos_!” Hermione cast again, this time using her _other_ wand. By the light of the two powerful beams, they could see all the way along the corridor … and the tangled mass facing them.

“How are we supposed to get through _that?”_ Harry moaned, casting his eyes over the lattice-like barrier blocking their path ahead.

“What does Devil’s Snare dislike?” Hermione pressed, as though giving Harry a snap quiz on his homework.

“Heat and light!” Harry cried. “But … I cant do that fire spell you can.”

“Of course you can,” Hermione chirped brightly. “Are you a _potter,_ or not? They are the original _masters of fire_ , coming even before blacksmiths. A potter who cant make fire! What a nonsense notion! I’ll teach you the spell, it’s easy.”

And so she did. The incantation was _incendio,_ and the wand movement a curvy little twist, and soon Harry was sending jets of fire from his wand that were quite as potent as Hermione’s, only they were emerald green rather than bluebell in colour.

“That’s great, Harry!” Hermione sang. “I really think you’ve gotten the hang of it. Ready?”

“Ready,” Harry announced firmly, brandishing his wand like a swordsman of old.

Then Hermione darted forwards. The Devil’s Snare snapped out viciously at her, like the jaws of a many-headed hydra. She did her best to flick her bluebell flames at as many of the sharp-thorned creepers as she could, but Harry still heard her yelp every few seconds as one broke through and pierced the thin cotton of her Hogwarts robes.

The sound stirred Harry to action. He tucked up into her slipstream, angling his green fire at any of the streaking tendrils that Hermione’s eagle-eye missed. Together, they battled through yard-by-yard, until eventually the evil plant simply gave up and slithered back to the darkness, as Hermione and Harry inadvertently combined their brother wands in a joint spell so powerful that it actually _incinerated_ many of the arms of the Snare as it reached out for them one last time.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked, as they raced clear into a plant-free part of the corridor beyond. He was keen to make sure she wasn’t hurt.

“I’m fine,” Hermione replied, recasting _lumos_ to light their way ahead. “A few scratches, but I’ll live. You?”

“I’m a bit ashamed that you did more of the work and outscored me, but I’m sure I’ll get a chance to even things up!” Harry guffawed. “I don’t like to lose!”

“And you’re friends with _me_?” Hermione laughed. “Good luck with that!”

“Just lead on,” Harry quirked, pushing Hermione playfully along the dark corridor before them.

The passageway sloped downwards now, and the only sound was the dripping of water from the walls. They could be miles under the school at this point, way under the plumbing. Harry hoped that _was_ water dripping on his head, and not the collated waste of a thousand empty bladders from the students high above. He dry retched as another drop splashed onto the lens of his glasses. Up ahead they could hear a sort of rushing sound, maybe a whispering of sorts.

“Do you think it’s ghosts?” Hermione hushed in a shuddering voice.

“Could be,” Harry muttered. “Do you know how to kill a ghost?”

“No. Do you?”

“If I ever did, I’ve forgotten,” Harry confessed, shivering in his damp robes. “You know, I think it sounds more like _flapping_ … maybe _wings_.”

And he was right. From a chamber at the end of the corridor, with a ceiling so vaulted any of the great cathedrals of Europe would be proud of it, the source of the sound was revealed. They looked like hundreds of little birds, but as one attacked Hermione - when she stepped boldly into the brightly lit room - she caught it and showed it to Harry.

“It’s not a little birdie, but a little key, look!” she hummed, in a very un-Hermione-ish sing-song voice, as she thrust the key into Harry’s hand. “Ooh, Harry! Do you think there’s a _king key_ somewhere? And do you think he’s really _rude_! You know … _kinky?_ Geddit? King-Key! Ha ha ha. _”_

Then Hermione started giggling uncontrollably and grabbed onto the front of Harry’s robes, nearly dragging him to the floor as she, herself, fell to one knee in her mirth.

“Hermione!” Harry cried in concern. “Are you okay?”

“Yesh, yesh I’m fine,” Hermione replied, somewhat drunkenly. “But are you sure _you’re_ okay? Has your skin always been this elastic and _pully_? It looks _weird!”_

And with that she reached up and began pulling at Harry’s cheeks, as though trying to stretch his skin around his head.

“Oi! Stop that!” Harry reprimanded, pulling Hermione’s hands away from his now raw flesh.

“Okay, I will,” Hermione huffed. “Ooh, look, there’s a broom here, Harry. I wonder why.”

She tapped her fingers to her chin as she thought, as the other hand rhythmically rapped Harry over the head with the tail-twig end of the broom she’d picked up.

“Will you stop!” Harry hissed. “Why are you being so mental?”

“I think those keys are drugged, you know,” Hermione pondered in that strangely babyish voice. “I reckon if I run out they will all go for me. Then we’ll know.”

Before Harry had any sort of time to protest, Hermione dashed away from him and into the heart of the chamber. As she’d predicted, the mass of keys shot directly at her, pecking her with sharp little nips. Harry’s first instinct was to race to her aid, but then he looked up at the clear air above him.

And there, suspended high above, was a key far bigger, chunkier and grander than than any of the others. A true King of the Keys. Harry laughed along with Hermione, who sounded like she was being tickled to within an inch of her life by the other keys.

Grabbing the broom Hermione had been hitting him with, Harry kicked off from the ground and shot upwards like a dart. The key saw him coming and tried to flutter away. Not for nothing, though, was Harry a Quidditch Seeker, and after a brief chase he closed his fist around the thick brass object. He raced back to the door on the other side of the chamber and jammed the struggling key into the lock, damaging its wings in the process.

“Yes!” Harry cried as the door clicked open and the now battered key flew back up towards the ceiling.

After bracing the door with his wand, Harry rushed over to Hermione and started swatting the other keys away from her with his broom. When he had cleared a path to his best friend, he reached down and scooped her up. She was delicately light, and Harry found he could quite easily carry her away from the keys and across the chamber towards safety.

“Ooh, _Harry!”_ Hermione teased saucily, as Harry stepped through the open doorway. “Carrying me across the threshold already! Aren’t we supposed to have a few dates first!?”

Hermione giggled insanely hard at that, and curled a balled fist into that bit of Harry’s robe that she could reach, while her other arm squeezed tight around his neck where she was clinging onto him. Harry blushed madly and tried to ignore Hermione’s playfulness, placing her gently down onto the rutted ground and reaching for his wand from under the door, which slammed shut as soon as it was free.

The fresh air of the corridor seemed to sober Hermione up in an instant. She stood quickly and straightened out her robes, before clearing her throat and speaking in an oddly high-pitched octave.

“Good job,” she said in a false tone. “Shall we see what comes next?”

“Yes, lets,” Harry agreed enthusiastically, then followed as Hermione led the way into the next chamber.

And right onto the chequered floor of a giant chessboard.

“I assume we have to play our way across,” Harry mused, as Hermione inspected the enormous chessmen.

“I agree,” she nodded. “It makes sense alchemically, too.”

“How so?” Harry quizzed.

“Well, right now we are in the _black stage_ ,” Hermione explained. “Meaning you are a Black King. In order to progress, you have to become a _white king_ , presumably by beating the one standing on the opposite side of the board.”

The huge chess piece in question turned his expressionless head towards Harry in a clear gesture of challenge.

And Harry accepted at once.

“Fine. I’ll be the Black King,” Harry announced, watching as the offending piece turned and walked away from the board, leaving Harry free to stand on its vacant square. “But what about you? What will you be?”

“Well, I have to be the most powerful and most influential of your allies in real life,” Hermione replied with a shy blush. “So … I think I’d better be your _queen_.”

The inference wasn’t lost on Harry, who felt a nervous flutter cross his chest. But in the same instance he realised how glad he was that Hermione was there with him right now. If _anyone_ was to be his queen, he rather thought he’d like it to be her. That meant something else, something important, he wasn’t insensible of that fact. Harry decided he’d try and work out what it was later as a matter of urgency ... assuming the giant chess game didn’t smash his tiny head to smithereens.

But Hermione was good at this. Smart and clever, and with a tactical eye she’d not revealed before, she played the best game of chess Hogwarts had ever seen, decimating the opposition both in the direction of her troops and in how many enemy pieces she took care of herself. Before long, the enemy king was standing alone, and Hermione herself was the one who moved forwards to make the final checkmate.

The white king took off his crown … and threw it at Harry’s feet.

“You did it!” Harry whooped in triumph. “You won!”

“No, _we_ won!” Hermione corrected with a victorious smile. “Come on my white king. Four tasks down, three to go.”

“What can we expect this time?” Harry asked joining Hermione in the adjoining passageway.

“Well, the first stage is always associated with fire,” Hermione began. “Then we had earth with the Snare, air with the flying keys, and the chess game was a mental task, which is generally considered a water association.”

“So what comes after that? This fifth element you mentioned?”

“No, this is where the alchemist begins looking internally in the Opus,” Hermione explained lowly. “We are leaving the earthly, Lower Work and looking at the Higher Work. It will be dealing with the final dark aspects of the psyche to achieve enlightenment, and then testing that growth with a challenge to the higher mind.”

“You’d better do that one then!” Harry smirked. “I don’t think I _have_ a higher mind. But what will _I_ face, I wonder.”

“You will face _me_.”

Harry stopped, and looked into the gloom. And his breath left his lungs in a stinging rush. For there, blocking their path, was a powerful, black-maned _lion!_

“Oh my!” Hermione squeaked in shock. “Harry! Be careful.”

“Who are you!” Harry hissed. “Or _what_ are you?”

For Harry couldn’t shake a sense of _familiarity_ as he looked at the massive paws and powerful body. He didn’t _like_ the sensation, for there was a dark malice behind the eyes of the beast now stalking towards them.

“I am Mercurius, I am your anger, you rage, your internal drive,” the lion replied. “I am the part of you that hopes your friends fail, and that you succeed in their place. I AM you!”

“Dont believe him, Harry!” Hermione whispered. “It isn’t true!”

But Harry barely heard her. The lion’s voice was deep and lyrical, hypnotic even, and laced with layers of meaning that Harry understood on what he could only describe as a psychic level. There was a definite sense of _truth_ in his words, no matter how hard they were for Harry to hear. For a moment, he wondered if he was seeing … his own _d_ _æ_ _mon!_ But he hoped he wasn’t. For he hated to think that this was the _real_ him, his _actual_ soul. But if it _was_ … who was he to argue with it?

“Yes, you understand, don’t you?” Mercurius purred, brushing his snout against Harry’s hand. “I am the part of you that enjoys seeing your friends be less than you, the part that knows how superior you are to them. I am the power that you hold inside, the part that will lead you to rule the world! Forget this girl, come with me and let us be great together!”

For a moment, Harry was sorely tempted. He was almost about to move forwards, when Hermione suddenly stepped in front of him.

And when she spoke, her voice had become a blend of her own … and that of her _own_ dæmon.

“You mustn’t believe this, Harry,” Hermione told him firmly, her voice flickering between tones. “If it were true, do you think I would have allowed it? Allowed you to touch me so intimately? To touch me in parts I should never have permitted you to? No, Harry, I would never have let you, if I’d sensed such darkness in you. I’d have never let you touch me … _here_.”

And she reached out her hand, to splay her digits against Harry’s chest … and the essence of Papageno flowed right inside … to Harry’s _real_ dæmon _._

And Harry lost all his senses in a rush of gorgeous, breathless emotion. It was as if his very _soul_ was set afire with divine passion and inspiration.

It was overpowering. It sent Harry to his knees, and brought euphoric tears to his eyes. He struggled to get a clean gulp of air, to revel in whatever this empowerment was that was running through him. But the sensation was flowing away like the details of a beautiful dream, now that Hermione was no longer touching his heart. He clutched helplessly at his chest, as though trying to hold the feeling in, but it was drifting away fast like a Spring mist.

And in its place it left anger, for the residue of the Dark Temptation that Harry was so nearly taken by … and he directed all of it at the foul beast still prowling around the corridor … at his own very real _demon_.

Harry raised his wand, but Hermione stepped close again, drawing her own phoenix wand and pressing it to his.

“Together?” she asked with a beautiful smile.

“On three!” Harry agreed, grinning back.

And three seconds later the most powerful incendio spell ever cast at Hogwarts incinerated whatever it was in front of them. A quick fist pump later and they were facing the next chamber.

They stepped into a perfectly circular room and immediately a fire sprang up both in front and behind of them. The one ahead was covered in black flame, the one behind purple. They were trapped. In the middle of the room was a long table with different-shaped potion bottles on it, and a riddle on how to work out what was in each.

“My turn,” Hermione chirped brightly. “It’s a puzzle! This should be fun.”

“If you take longer than three minutes to solve it you owe me a box of chocolate frogs!” Harry funned, sitting down to watch Hermione work.

She worked the puzzle out in less than two.

“This tiny thing,” Hermione announced, holding up the smallest bottle. “Will get you through the black fire. That fat one on the end will get me back through the other one.”

“Then … you really _aren’t_ coming with me?” Harry asked in a quavering voice.

“No, Harry … you have to go on … alone.”

For the first time since they’d opened the door on the Third Floor corridor, Harry felt truly afraid.

Hermione bit her lip, and Harry could tell she was trying to be brave … _for him_. That was all sorts of backwards in Harry’s mind. Then it clicked - she didn’t want to seem scared, because it might make Harry stay with her, rather than going on and doing what needed to be done. And _she_ didn’t want to be a source of weakness for him.

And right then Harry wanted, more than anything in the world, to have the courage to tell her that she would _never_ be a weakness for him. In fact, she was the greatest source of _strength_ he thought he’d ever find, no matter how many worlds he might look for it in. He wanted to be better for her, good enough to be considered her equal, worthy enough to be her friend.

But he was far too shy to say any of that to her. So he had to content himself with a simple reply instead.

“Okay. You go first.”

Hermione nodded, her lip trembled, then she dashed at Harry and flung her arms around his neck.

“ _Hermione!”_ Harry cried in shock, before snaking his arms around her as if they belonged there.

“Oh, Harry! Do be careful!” Hermione sobbed into his shoulder. “You’re a great wizard, you really are.”

“And you’re the bravest, brightest witch of _any_ age,” Harry breathed into her hair, hugging her as close as he could get her, as if he could steal every ounce of the amazing courage and strength she had inside, if he just pulled her tight enough to him. “I’d never have gotten this far without you. If I ever forget to tell you, I’m really, _really_ glad you came all this way to meet me!”

“So am I! So am I!” Hermione laughed as she gripped him tighter still.

It took a few minutes, but soon they broke apart, bright eyed but quite unable to meet the others gaze. Then Harry took the lead.

“You drink first,” he told her. “I’m not going on till I know you’re safe.”

“Alright,” Hermione conceded. “I’ll go back and find McGonagall, or Snape, or _anyone._ You just hold on long enough till I get back, understand?”

“Merlin you really _are_ bossy!” Harry laughed. “I’ve only just noticed.”

“Just do as you’re told,” Hermione grinned.

She took half a step forward, and for half a moment Harry thought she was going to _kiss him_ or something. He wondered what that would feel like. But then Hermione simply took the fat bottle from the potion table, downed its contents, and stepped through the purple fire.

“Not poison, then?” Harry smirked.

“No, but it feels like ice,” Hermione replied. “Good luck - take care - I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

And then she turned and raced back towards the chess room. Harry uncorked the skinny vial in his hand, downed the liquid inside, and stepped through the black fire to the final task. He pitied whatever was about to face him, for he was armed with the power of Hermione Granger, and at that moment Harry couldn’t think of a more potent force in existence.


	22. Harry’s Dæmon

Harry knew Quirrell would be waiting inside, of course he did. But to see him standing there, to finally face the task of beating him to the Stone, was something else entirely. Not only that, but Quirrell didn’t seem his usual, bumbling self. There was a strength and confidence to his stride, a cool sharpness to his voice as he muttered to himself, trying to work out how the Mirror worked.

“Do I break it?” he was saying. “Is the Stone _inside_ the glass? I see myself presenting it to my Master … but how to get it.”

For a few moments, Quirrell didn’t realise that Harry was there. That was until he turned to examine the back of the Mirror … and Harry let out a shriek of horror.

For there, in the back of Quirrell’s head, was the most terrifying _face_ Harry had ever seen. Chalk white, with slits for nostrils and angry red eyes, this wasn’t the face of Thomas Riddle that Harry had seen in Oxford … this was the shadowy spectre of whatever it was that _Lord Voldemort_ could pass for a soul.

“Bring the boy!” Voldemort hissed, his voice like icy vapour.

Quirrell snapped around, then immediately snapped his fingers and - in a breathtaking display of wandless magic - Harry found himself bound in tight ropes. Harry had never seen that before, and it brought the reality of the depth of this challenge slamming home to him.

“Potter!” Quirrell cried. “How nice of you to join us. Come here.”

Another wave of his hand and Harry had floated across the Chamber, to hover in front of the Mirror.

“Of all the people,” Harry spat. “I didn’t think it’d be you! I ruled you out. Too weak and stuttery. But it was all an act!”

“I played my role well,” Quirrell sneered in that sharp new tone of his. “You suspected Severus, I presume. So useful to have a cartoon villain swooping around the castle like a human bat. Covered my intentions nicely. Apart from with Dumbledore … that old fool suspected me all along.”

“That’s because Dumbledore is a great wizard,” Harry taunted. He wanted to distract Quirrell, keep his attention away from the Mirror. “I hear he’s the only wizard that you are afraid of, Tom Riddle.”

Quirrell gasped and clutched at his heart. “Do not _dare_ to use my Master’s foul Muggle name! I should kill you for it!”

“Do nothing, faithful Quirrell!” Voldemort ordered from the back of his head. “We need the boy alive … for now.”

“How does this work then?” Harry asked conversationally, waving his head towards the symbiosis facing him. He felt oddly calm. He knew Hermione would be on her way back soon with help, he just had to keep Quirrell talking. “One body, two souls. Must be a little crowded in there.”

“Crowded!” Quirrell hooted in derision. “My Master _blesses_ me by sharing my body. I drink unicorn blood to sustain him, and he shares his power with me. I am lucky to be so chosen.”

“Megalomaniacs and psychotic dictators don’t tend to share power,” Harry quirked lightly. “You might want to check the small print on that arrangement, Professor.”

“Silence! Foolish child!” Quirrell snapped angrily. “Now, look into this Mirror … and tell me what you see.”

Quirrell snapped his fingers and Harry rotated on the spot to stare into the glass. He was dying to know where Quirrell’s wand was, and how he was doing magic without it, but then an image started to rise in the Mirror. It was a shapeless mass of swirly grey clouds to start with, but there was something starting to form in the amorphous silvery mist the longer Harry looked.

“Speak, Potter!”

 _Lie_ , _Harry_ , _lie!_

Hermione’s voice echoed in Harry’s mind. Or was it Papageno? Harry was struggling to tell them apart just now. Either way, it was sage advice and Harry had to follow it.

“I’m winning the Qudditch Cup, and the House Cup,” Harry invented. “And the _Weird Sisters_ are playing my victory march. Is this real? Wow, I cant wait for this to happen!”

“Shut up, Potter!” Quirrell screamed. “What are you _really_ seeing? No more filthy lies, or that little girlfriend of yours will be next to see the green flash of Avada Kedavra.”

A mix of anger and disgust rose in Harry’s throat at that. Who was this clown to threaten Hermione? Harry wasn’t going to stand for that. He looked into the Mirror again.

“I need to find the Stone,” he thought desperately. “I need to keep it away from Quirrell and Voldemort. Help me!”

And the Mirror responded.

From the swirling mists reflected in the glass, two figures strode forward to stand on the left edge of the frame. For a moment, Harry thought it was his father he was seeing, but then a startling realisation hit him. It wasn’t his father … but _himself_. Older, much older, but definitely Harry, not James, Potter. The image annoyed Harry a little, for they were so similar that Harry wondered at his own lack of individuality when it came to his appearance.

But then the second figure came into sharp focus. He knew this face, too, and just like first it was older and more worldly. Harry instantly recognised the warmth of Hermione in her chestnut-brown eyes, in the curve of her mouth and the soft bounce of her curly hair. She smiled at him, then nodded at the _third_ person in the scene.

For Hermione had that baby with her again. It was cuddled into her shoulder this time and Hermione was singing softly to it. Harry couldn’t hear, but he knew the melody would be sweet and peaceful. It made his heart pump with wild power as he watched, and he had no idea why.

It was just Hermione with a baby … why would that make his pulse speed at a zillion miles an hour? When his breath returned, maybe he’d be able to ask someone.

But then, quite unexpectedly, something jumped out from _within_ the chest of the reflected Hermione. Harry immediately recognised the bandy legs of Papageno as he padded around the bottom frame of the Mirror. Then he was joined by a second animal, one that stepped gracefully out from inside _Harry!_

It was a powerful, elegant lioness, her golden fur glistening from a light source Harry couldn’t see. She frolicked almost indecently with Papageno a moment, and Harry felt compelled to look away, as though he were watching two lovers in an intimate clinch. He blushed at the sight, and averted his eyes modestly, but then the lioness _spoke_ to him.

“Hello, Harry,” she purred. “I am Marici.”

"Hello," Harry replied in shock. He was struggling to take this in.

And he had the distinct impression that this conversation was going on _inside_ him, within the confines of his own skull. Quirrell didn’t seem to be able to hear it. He hadn’t moved, and was still staring at Harry with angry impatience. It was as if time had stopped, too, for Harry felt a floaty sense of serenity settle upon him.

“Are you my … _d_ _æ_ _mon_?”

Marici nodded and smiled, in a lioness sort of way.

 _“Wow!”_ Harry breathed reverently. “My dæmonis a lion! Wait till I tell Hermione!”

“A lion _ess_ ,” Marici corrected. “And Hermione wont be surprised. That was her guess all along.”

“Wow!” Harry parroted. “Good guess! Look, Marici, I need your help. I need to find the Stone before Quirrell. Do you know where it is?”

“Of course she does,” Papageno suddenly cut in, leaping up to sit on Marici’s back. “Because _she_ is it, or … more precisely … _you are_.”

“Me?” Harry stuttered in astonishment. “I don’t understand.”

“The Stone is just a vulgar thing, the goal of the base and vacuous,” Marici explained. “The _true_ Philosopher’s Stone is not a thing you can taste or touch or smell. It’s something you _feel_.”

“It’s like being in love,” Papageno took over with a wry purr. “No-one can tell you when you are in love, you just know it.”

“What does that even mean?” Harry moaned. This really wasn’t helping.

“It means, Harry,” Marici mewled lowly. “That Voldemort’s power is not trapped in some object that can be stolen and manipulated. It is trapped and contained inside a vessel full of such purity and goodness that evil such as his has no chance of escape.

“It is guarded, Harry, by your _heart_.”

Harry gasped aloud. “Voldemort’s power is … _inside me_?”

“Hidden away, deep down, which is where _I_ stand guard over it,” Marici explained fiercely. “Do not fear that it infects you or influences you. We are the controllers of _it_ , not the other way around.”

“And as long as your body exists, Voldemort knows he cannot harm you,” Papageno added. “To destroy the vessel containing his own power would be to destroy himself. That gives _you_ the advantage, Harry.”

“How?”

“By forcing _Quirrell_ to attack you,” Marici continued. “He knows that if he fails now, the spirit of Tom Riddle will leave him. And with no unicorn blood to drink, he will die.”

“But he cannot physically harm you,” Papageno added. “Have you noticed how all his magic is done from a distance? To touch you in a violent way would cause Voldemort’s own defensive reactions to inflict physical harm upon him, in order to defend _your_ body.”

“But how do I get Quirrell to attack me?” Harry asked.

“By crushing that flimsy Stone in your mouth.”

Harry looked perplexed a moment, but then Marici opened her powerful jaws wide, and when she closed them somehow - incredibly - Harry felt the smooth edges of the Stone between his _own_ teeth!

“What is taking so long, Potter!” Quirrell yelled. “Just tell me what you see!”

Harry tried talking, but his words were muffled as his tongue was pressed down by the Stone.

“What? You are mumbling garbage!” Quirrell cried.

“Release him! He has the Stone!”

Voldemort knew, then. That wasn’t really a surprise. What surprised Harry more was that he was instantly unbound. He knew that Quirrell would be heading for him ... so he had to act fast.

Harry spat the Stone into his now free hand. He held it aloft for Quirrell to see … then crushed the brittle jewel into sparkling ash.

“No! Potter! What have you done!”

Quirrell lunged at Harry and tried to grab his throat as if to throttle him. The impact bruised Harry’s skinny neck and he fell back, choking and spluttering. But Quirrell didn’t follow up his attack, as Harry had expected. He immediately jerked his hands back as if they’d been burned. Indeed, Harry could see the welting skin as Quirrell inspected it.

“What sort of magic is _this_!” Quirrell screamed, blowing desperately at his fingers to try and stop the now _melting_ flesh.

“The sort you will never understand.”

Harry’s head shot up and a million volts of electricity zoomed all around him. He was saved.

“ _Dad!_ ”

James Potter winked down at Harry, then flicked a spell at Quirrell. Harry didn’t know what it was, but the impact was clear enough. The shadowy vapour of Voldemort was wrenched clear of Quirrell’s head, who screamed with the pain and made one last, desperate lurch towards Harry.

There was a click, a bang like a firecracker, and a _bullet_ hit Quirrell square in the temple, killing him dead at Harry’s feet. Harry flicked his eyes in wide astonishment to a figure stepping out from behind his father.

“Why do you wizards always _insist_ on playing with your food? It’s a failing of your kind.”

“Lyra!” Harry cried out, or tried to. His throat was rapidly swelling up from Quirrell’s attempted assault, and he was struggling to breathe, let alone speak.

“Harry! Are you alright, son?” James asked anxiously, cradling Harry as he raced over to him.

“Th-throat,” Harry squeaked out, pointing at his engorged neck.

“Come on, let’s get you to the Hospital Wing,” James replied, hoisting his son into his powerful arms. “We’ll have you patched up in no time.”

“I’ll go and keep Hermione occupied,” Lyra declared sagely, slipping her gun back into the belt of her jeans. “If Harry has a bad neck, the last thing he needs is my girl throwing her arms around it or something.”

Harry couldn’t say right now, but he actually thought that might be all the healing he’d ever need.

* * *

Harry and Hermione’s subterranean battle with the Voldemort-possessed Professor Quirrell soon became the stuff of legend. And at Hogwarts, that was actually saying something. Quite how everyone knew the details was rather baffling, as Harry was pretty sure he and Hermione had been alone at the time. But soon enough the other Gryffindor first-years were asking Harry to demonstrate his skill with emerald green fire, for Hermione to beat them all at wizard’s chess, and for Harry to slip Hermione just a drop of the opioid poison, just so she could make them all laugh with more drunken antics.

The end-of-year exams came and went, and Harry was reasonably confident that he’d done pretty well. Certainly well enough to cash in on his bet with Sirius, who had promised to upgrade his Nimbus Broomstick to the 2001 version, so long as he performed well enough to force Professor Snape to give him the highest grade available.

In no time at all, it seemed, they were packing up their trunks and boarding the Hogwarts Express, all still marvelling at the fact that last minute points had awarded Gryffindor the House Cup for the first time in seven years. Harry was back to being a hero, back to being in the spotlight, but as he enjoyed a few last hours of anonymity with just Hermione for company, he rather thought there was something to be said for going under the radar.

As the train rolled on towards London, and Harry’s thoughts drifted towards his new racing broom and endless sessions at the Big Blue Tent over the coming weeks, his mind fell on Sirius again … and something he’d almost overlooked.

“Oh, Hermione, I nearly forgot,” Harry cried out suddenly. “I got you something.”

“You need to stop doing that, Harry,” Hermione blushed shyly. “There’s really no need.”

“Oh this wasn’t an expensive thing,” Harry reassured her. “But all the events of the last few weeks got me thinking.”

“Ah! Progress at last!” Hermione teased with a giggle. “It’s only taken a full year, but I’ve finally gotten you to _think!_ I believe that _deserves_ a reward!”

“Very funny,” Harry grinned. “But if it’s a reward you want, I hope you will like this one.”

Harry reached into his trunk, and handed Hermione a small vanity mirror. She looked up at him curiously.

“I’m not sure what to make of this,” Hermione quirked. “Either you think I should pay more attention to my looks, or you want to remind me of that horror under the school. Either way, I’m not sure I like it!”

“Will you let me explain?” Harry begged wearily. “All this business with mirrors - particularly _two-way_ mirrors - gave me an idea. I thought that if the two Erised mirrors could be used to communicate between places, that maybe the idea could be applied to something slightly less nefarious.”

Hermione sucked in a surprised breath. “You got two-way mirrors … for _us_ to communicate over the Summer! Oh, _Harry_ , that’s really thoughtful.”

“Well, yes, it was,” Harry agreed with a little smile. “But then I thought, if I was going to have a two-way mirror created, it would be a bit selfish of me to have the other one. So I’ve sent my Godfather to the North. He's heading up there as we speak. He’s going to find that witch you mentioned, Serafina Pekkala. And when he does, he’s going to get her to help him cross back into your world. Once there, he’s going to head straight to Oxford, find that little dental practice on the canal and hand the mirror over to the dentists who run it.

“If all goes well, you should be able to speak to your parents - your _real_ ones - in a week or so.”

Hermione stared at Harry and her mouth fell open. She looked down at the mirror in her hands, fingering the delicate silver engraving around the edge. The engraving simply read, _For Hermione, from Harry_. Hermione felt hot tears rise behind her eyes, and her lip quavered, rendering her incapable of speech. She swallowed and took several rapid breaths, blinking those bothersome tears away.

But she didn’t say thank you. She didn’t need to. Harry knew, and that was more powerful than any words could express. He looked modestly away, so that if Hermione wanted to weep in secret she could. Harry scratched Papageno behind his ears, listening to him purr and feeling the pinch of his claws in his lap, as Hermione’s surging emotion spilled into her dæmon, too.

And Harry looked out of the window as the landscape rushed past, smiling as his own dæmon rose and roared in his chest. She approved of what he’d done, and if the two great cats were in agreement, then Harry knew everything would be alright.

_End of Volume Two._


End file.
